THE  THREE 
FATES 

BY 

F-MARIQN 
CRAWFORD 


THE  THREE  FATES 


THE    THREE    FATES 


BY 


F.    MARION    CRAWFORD 

AUTHOR   OF   "MR.   ISAACS,"   "DR.   CLAUDIUS/'   "  SARACTXKsrA, 
ETC. 


Hontron 
MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 

AND     NEW    YORK 

1893 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1891, 
BT  MACMILLAN    AND  CO 


Set  unam*  flectrotypcd  January,  J892- 
Reprvrfel,  April,  fa)/,  '.dtt&q;  1892. 


TYPOGRAPHY  BV  J.  S.  CfSHING  &  Co.,  BOSTON,  U.S.A. 

PRESSWORK  BV  BERWICK  &  SMITH,  BOSTON,  U.S.A. 


FREDERICK    MACMILLAN 

AN    EXPRESSION    OF    GRATITUDE 

FROM  AN  AUTHOR  TO  HIS  PUBLISHER 

AND    OF    HIGH    ESTEEM    ENTERTAINED 

BY   ONE    MAN   FOR    ANOTHER 


ROME,  February  21,  1892 


1722174 


THE  THEEE   FATES, 


CHAPTER   I,  * 

JONAH  WOOD  was  bitterly  disappointed  in  his  son. 
During  five  and  twenty  years  he  had  looked  in  vain  for 
the  development  of  those  qualities  in  George,  which 
alone,  in  his  opinion,  could  insure  success.  But  though 
George  could  talk  intelligently  about  the  great  move 
ments  of  business  in  New  York,  it  was  clear  by  this  time 
that  he  did  not  possess  what  his  father  called  business 
instincts.  The  old  man  could  have  forgiven  him  his 
defective  appreciation  in  the  matter  of  dollars  and  cents, 
however,  if  he  had  shown  the  slightest  inclination  to 
adopt  one  of  the  regular  professions ;  in  other  words,  if 
George  had  ceased  to  waste  his  time  in  the  attempt  to 
earn  money  with  his  pen,  and  had  submitted  to  becom 
ing  a  scribe  in  a  lawyer's  office,  old  Wood  would  have 
been  satisfied.  The  boy's  progress  might  have  been 
slow,  but  it  would  have  been  sure. 

It  was  strange  to  see  how  this  elderly  man,  who  had 
been  ruined  by  the  exercise  of  his  own  business  facul 
ties,  still  pinned  his  faith  upon  his  own  views  and  theo 
ries  of  finance,  and  regarded  it  as  a  real  misfortune  to 
be  the  father  of  a  son  who  thought  differently  from  him 
self.  It  would  have  satisfied  the  height  of  his  ambition 

*  B  1 


2  1  HI.     1  II  i:i.  h     l-Al'ES. 

t«>  ft  •  e  installed  as  a  .-Ink  mi  a  nominal  salary  in 

one  ot  the  great  kinking  houses.     Possibly,  at  an  earlier 

••I.  and  before  lieorge  had  finally  refused  to  enter  a 

!   business,  there  may  have  been   in  the  bottom 

;••  old  man's  heart  a  hope  that  his  >«.n  mi-lit  some 

become  a  financial  j»ower,  and  wreak  vengeance  for 
his  oun  and  his  father's  hisses  upon  Tlmin.i^  Cr.uk  or 
his  heirs  after  him  ;  hut  if  this  wish  existed  Jonah  Wood 
had  honestly  tried  t«»  put  it  out  of  the  way.  He  was  of 
u  religious  dis]M>sition,  and  his  moral  rectitude  was  above 
all  doiilit.  Hi-  did  not  forgive  his  enemies,  hut  In-  MH 

\  in.  -tut  to.cto.so,  and  did  his  best  not  to  entertain 

•  of  revenge. 

I  to rv    of   hvv    wrongs  was  a  simple  one.      He   had 

formerly  been  a   very  successful  man.     of  a  jjood  New 

ind    family.  IM-   had    runic   to    N«-w  \"ork    when    \n\ 
yoiin^,  pos.r^rd  of  :1  Mnall  capital,  full   of  intrant  \.  in 
du>try.  and  determination.      At   tin-  airc  of   torty  h« 
at  the  head  of  a  biinkin^   firm   which   had   for  a  time 
enjoy»-d  a  reputation  of  some  importance.     Then  he  had 
married    a    voting    lady   of    .ur«>«»d    hirth    and    p.,— ,.^ing  a 
little    tortnne.  to  whom    he    had    hem    attached    for    \.-;u- 
and    who    had    waited    for    him    with    touching    tidelitx. 
Tw.-lve    months    later,    she    had    died    in   tfivinv;   hirth    to 
Gh  1'i^sihly   the  terrible  shock   weakened  Jonah 

1*1  nerves  and  disturbed  the  balance  of  his  faculties. 
Ar  .ill  events  it  was  at  this  time  that  he  bejjan  to  enter 
into  sp.-eiilation.  At  tir^t  he  was  very  succe»fnl.  and 

tOOetfl  threw  him  into  .-h»>er  intimacy  with  Tln»ma> 
<'raik.  a  i-oii>in  of  his  dead  wite'>.  |-'or  a  time  evervthiiii; 

•er«-d  with  the  bank,  while  Wood  acquired  the   habit 

"1    tolloNvin^   Craik's   advice.      On  an    ill-fated   dav.   how- 

the    hitter    j.ersna.led    him    to    invest    largely   in    a 

certain  railway  not  yet    be^un.  hut  which  was  completed 

in   a   marvellously  short  space  of  time.       In  the  coin 

:    two  it  was   evident    that    the    road,  which  Craik 

ed   on    running  upon   the    m.-M    ruinoii>    principles, 

iuon  be.-ome  bankrupt.      It  had  of  course  been  built 


THE   THREE    FATES.  8 

to  compete  with  an  old  established  line ;  the  usual  war 
of  rates  set  in,  the  old  road  suffered  severely,  and  the 
young  one  was  ruined.  This  was  precisely  what  Craik 
had  anticipated.  So  soon  as  the  bankruptcy  was  declared 
and  the  liquidation  terminated,  he  bought  up  every  bond 
and  share  upon  which  he  could  lay  his  hands.  Wood 
was  ruined,  together  with  a  number  of  other  heavy 
investors.  The  road,  however,  having  ceased  to  pay 
interest  on  its  debts  continued  to  run  at  rates  disas 
trous  to  its  more  honest  competitor,  and  before  long  the 
latter  was  obliged  in  self-defence  to  buy  up  its  rival. 
When  that  extremity  was  reached  Thomas  Craik  was  in 
possession  of  enough  bonds  and  stock  to  give  him  a  con 
trolling  interest,  and  he  sold  the  ruined  railway  at  his 
own  price,  realising  a  large  fortune  by  the  transaction. 
Wood  was  not  only  financially  broken ;  his  reputation, 
too,  had  suffered  in  the  catastrophe.  At  first,  people 
looked  askance  at  him,  believing  that  he  had  got  a  share 
of  the  profits,  and  that  he  was  only  pretending  poverty 
until  the  scandal  should  blow  over,  though  he  had  in 
reality  sacrificed  almost  everything  he  possessed  in  the 
honourable  liquidation  of  the  bank's  affairs,  and  found 
himself,  at  the  age  of  fifty-seven,  in  possession  only  of 
the  small  fortune  that  had  been  his  wife's,  and  of  the 
small  house  which  had  escaped  the  general  ruin,  and  in 
which  he  now  lived.  Thomas  Craik  had  robbed  him,  as 
he  had  robbed  many  others,  and  Jonah  Wood  knew  it, 
though  there  was  no  possibility  of  ever  recovering  a 
penny  of  his  losses.  His  nerve  was  gone,  and  by  the 
time  people  had  discovered  that  he  was  the  most  honest 
of  men,  he  was  more  than  half  forgotten  by  those  he  had 
known  best.  He  had  neither  the  energy  nor  the  courage 
to  begin  life  again,  and  although  he  had  cleared  his  repu 
tation  of  all  blame,  he  knew  that  he  had  made  the  great 
mistake,  and  that  no  one  would  ever  again  trust  to  his 
judgment.  It  seemed  easiest  to  live  in  the  little  house, 
to  get  what  could  be  got  out  of  life  for  himself  and  his 
son  on  an  income  of  scarcely  two  thousand  dollars,  and 
to  shut  himself  out  from  his  former  acquaintance. 


4  THE  THREE   FATES. 

And  yet,  though  his  own  career  had  ended  in  such 
lamentable  failure,  he  would  gladly  have  seen  George 
begin  where  he  had  In-gun.  George  would  have  MIC- 
ceeded  in  doing  all  those  things  which  he  himself  had 

left  undone,  and  he  might  have  lived  to  see  established 
on  a  firm  basis  the  gr.-at  fortune  whieh  for  a  few  brief 
\ears  had  been  his  in  :i  Moating  itftto.  l>ut  George  could 
not  be  brought  to  underhand  this  point  of  view.  Hi- 
youth  t'nl  recollections  were  connected  with  monetary  dis 
aster,  and  his  first  bo\ish  antipathies  had  been  conceived 
against  everything  that  bore  the  name  of  business. 
What  he  felt  for  the  career  of  the  money-maker  was 
more  than  antipathy;  it  amounted  to  a  positive  horror 
whieh  he  could  not  overcome.  From  time  to  time  his 
father  returned  to  the  old  MO,\  of  his  wrongs  and  mis 
fortunes,  going  over  the  tale  as  he  sat  with  Ge. 
through  tin-  long  winter  evenings,  and  entering  int.. 
every  detail  of  the  transaction  which  had  ruined  him. 
In  justice  to  the  young  man  it  must  be  admitted  that  he 
WU  patient  on  those  occasions,  and  listened  with  out 
ward  calm  to  the  long  technical  explanations,  the  inter 
minable  concatenation  (,f  figures  and  the  jarring  cadence 
of  phrases  that  all  ended  with  the  word  dollars.  Hut  the 
talk  was  as  painful  to  him  as  a  violin  played  out  of  tune 
is  to  a  musician,  and  it  n-a.-t.-d  upon  his  nerves  and  pro 
duced  physical  pain  of  an  acute  kind.  He  could  set  his 
features  in  an  expression  ,,t  respectful  attention,  but  he 
could  not  help  twisting  his  long  smooth  lingers  together 
under  the  rdge  of  the  table,  where  h;s  father  could  not 
see  them.  The  very  name  of  money  disgusted  him.  and 
when  the  great  failure  had  Ix-eii  talked  of  in  the  even 
ing  it  haunted  his  dreams  throughout  the  night  and 
bil  rMt,  so  that  he  awoke  with  a  sense  of  n.  i 
and  distress  from  which  he  could  not  BBOftpe 
until  late  in  the  following  day. 

.Ion. ih  Wo.nl  s;,w  more  of  this  peculiarity  than  his  SOU 
suspeeted.  though  he  failed  to  understand  it.  With 
him,  nervouaiievs  took  a  different  form,  manifesting 


THE   THREE    FATES.  5 

itself  in  an  abnormal  anxiety  concerning  George's  wel 
fare,  combined  with  an  unfortunate  disposition  to  find 
fault.  Of  late,  indeed,  he  had  not  been  able  to  accuse 
the  young  man  of  idleness,  since  he  was  evidently  work 
ing  to  the  utmost  of  his  strength,  though  his  occupa 
tions  brought  him  but  little  return.  It  seemed  a  pity  to 
Jonah  Wood  that  so  much  good  time  and  so  much  young 
energy  should  be  wasted  over  pen,  ink,  paper,  and  books 
which  left  no  record  of  a  daily  substantial  gain.  He, 
too,  slept  little,  though  his  iron-grey  face  betrayed  noth 
ing  of  what  passed  in  his  mind. 

He  loved  his  son  in  his  own  untrusting  way.  It  was 
his  affection,  combined  with  his  inability  to  believe 
much  good  of  what  he  loved,  that  undermined  and  embit 
tered  the  few  pleasures  still  left  to  him.  He  had  never 
seen  any  hope  except  in  money,  and  since  George  hated 
the  very  mention  of  lucre  there  could  be  no  hope  for  him 
either.  A  good  man,  a  scrupulously  honest  man  accord 
ing  to  his  lights,  he  could  only  see  goodness  from  one 
point  of  view  and  virtue  represented  in  one  dress. 
Goodness  was  obedience  to  parental  authority,  and  vir 
tue  the  imitation  of  parental  ideas.  George  believed 
that  obedience  should  play  no  part  in  determining  what 
he  should  do  with  his  talent,  and  that  imitation,  though 
it  be  the  sincerest  flattery,  may  lay  the  foundation  for 
the  most  hopeless  of  all  failures,  the  failure  to  do  that 
for  which  a  man  is  best  adapted.  George  had  not  delib 
erately  chosen  a  literary  career  because  he  felt  himself 
fitted  for  it.  He  was  in  reality  far  too  modest  to  look 
forward  from  the  first  to  the  ultimate  satisfaction  of  his 
ambitions.  His  lonely  life  had  driven  him  to  writing 
as  a  means  of  expressing  himself  without  incurring  his 
father's  criticism  and  contradiction.  Not  understanding 
in  the  least  the  nature  of  imagination,  he  believed  him 
self  lacking  "in  this  respect,  but  he  had  at  once  found  an 
immense  satisfaction  in  writing  down  his  opinions  con 
cerning  certain  new  books  that  had  fallen  into  his  hands. 
Then,  being  emboldened  by  that  belief  in  his  own  judg- 


t;  i  HI,    1  MI:  1.1.    l  A  I  I.- 

ment  which  young  III-MI  acquire  \.T\  ea.-ily  when  they 
an-  imt  brought  into  daily  contact  with  their  intellectual 
equal*,  he  had  ventured  to  offer  the  latest  of  his  attempts 
to  on«-  editor  and  then  to  anotlicr  and  another.  At  last 
he  hail  found  one  who  chanced  to  In-  in  a  human  humour 
and  who  glanced  at  one  of  the  papei-. 

"It    i*    not    wort  -aid    the    autocrat,    "but  it   is 

quite  u*ele*s.  Kverybody  has  done  with  the  book 
months  ago.  Do  you  want  to  earn  a  little  money  by 

iwiewil. 

George  expie-M-d  his  readiness  to  do  so  with  alacrity. 
The  editor  scribbled  half  a  do/en  words  on  a  slip  of 
papn  from  a  Mock  and  handed  it  to  Oeorge,  telling  him 
\\here  to  take  it.  As  a  first  result  the  young  man  car 
ried  auay  a  couple  of  volumes  ot  new-burn  trash  upon 
which  to  try  his  hand.  A  quarter  ot  what  he  wrote  was 
published  in  the  literary  column  of  the  newspaper. 
He  had  yet  to  learn  the  cynical  practice  of  counting 
words,  upon  which  so  much  depends  in  dealing  with  tin- 
daily  press,  but  the  idea  of  actually  earning  something, 
no  matter  how  little,  overcame  his  tir.-t  feeling  of  disgust 
at  the  nature  of  the  work.  In  time  he  acquired  the 
necessary  tricks  and  did  very  well.  By  sheer  determi 
nation  he  devoted  all  his  best  hour*  of  the  day  to  the 
drudgery  of  second  class  criticism,  and  only  allowed 
himself  to  write  what  wa  d.le  to  his  own  brain 

when  the  day's  work  was  done. 

The  idea  of  producing  a  book  did  not  suggest  itself  to 
him.  In  his  own  opinion  he  had  none  of  the  necessary 
l"i  original  writing,  while  he  fancied  that  he 
pOtMMed  those  ot  the  critic  in  a  rather  umiMial  degree. 
His  highe-t  ambition  was  to  turn  out  a  volume  of  essays 
«'M  other  people's  doings  and  writing*,  and  he  was  COn- 
Mantly  labouring  in  his  leisure  moments  at  long  paper* 
treat  in-  ot  celebrated  work*,  in  what  he  believed  to  be  a 
-pint  of  profound  analysis.  As  yet  no  one  had  bestowed 
tin-  -lightest  attention  upon  hi-  .-Itoi  t-  :  no  serious  article 
ut  his  had  found  it-  uay  into  the  pie.--,  though  a  good  Is 


THE   THREE    FATES.  7 

number  of  his  carefully  copied  manuscripts  had  issued 
from  the  offices  of  various  periodicals  in  the  form  of 
waste  paper.  Strange  to  say,  he  was  not  discouraged  by 
these  failures.  The  satisfaction,  so  far  as  he  had  known 
any,  had  consisted  in  the  writing  down  of  his  views; 
and  though  he  wished  it  were  possible  to  turn  his  ink" 
stained  pages  into  money,  his  natural  detestation  of  all 
business  transactions  whatsoever  made  him  extremely 
philosophical  in  repeated  failure.  Even  in  regard  to 
his  daily  drudgery,  which  was  regularly  paid,  the  least 
pleasant  moment  was  the  one  when  he  had  to  begin  his 
round  from  one  newspaper  cashier  to  another  to  receive 
the  little  cheques  which  made  him  independent  of  his 
father  so  far  as  his  only  luxuries  of  new  books  and 
tobacco  were  concerned.  Pride,  indeed,  was  now  at  the 
bottom  of  his  resolution  to  continue  in  the  uninteresting 
course  that  had  been  opened  before  him.  Having  once 
succeeded  in  buying  for  himself  what  he  wanted  or  needed 
beyond  his  daily  bread  he  would  have  been  ashamed  to 
ever  go  again  for  pocket-money  to  his  father. 

The  nature  of  this  occupation,  which  he  would  not 
relinquish,  was  beginning  to  produce  its  natural  effect 
upon  his  character.  He  felt  that  he  was  better  than  his 
work,  and  the  inevitable  result  ensued.  He  felt  that  he 
was  hampered  and  tied,  and  that  every  hour  spent  in 
such  labour  was  a  page  stolen  from  the  book  of  his  repu 
tation;  that  he  was  giving  for  a  pitiful  wage  the  precious 
time  in  which  something  important  might  have  been 
accomplished,  and  that  his  life  would  turn  out  a  failure 
if  it  continued  to  run  on  much  longer  in  the  same  groove. 
Ajid  yet  he  assumed  that  it  would  be  absolutely  impos 
sible  for  him  to  abandon  his  drudgery  in  order  to  devote 
himself  solely  to  the  series  of  essays  on  which  he  had 
pinned  his  hopes  of  success.  His  serious  work,  as  he 
called  it,  made  little  progress  when  interrupted  at  every 
step  by  the  necessity  for  writing  twaddle  about  trash. 

It  may  be  objected  that  George  Wood  should  not  have 
written  twaddle,  but  should  have  employed  his  best 


8  THF    Till:!.!.    I    \  IF-. 

energies  in  the  improvement  of  second  class  literature 
by  systematically  telling  the  truth  al*>ut  it.  Unfortu 
nately  tin-  answer  to  such  a  stricture  is  not  tar  to  seek. 
If  lie  hail  written  what  he  thought,  the  newspapers 
would  have  cea^-d  to  employ  him:  not  that  it  is  alto 
gether  impossible  to  write  honestly  about  the  great  i  ; 
of  minor  Imnks  which  How  cast  and  west  and  north  and 
south  from  the  publishers'  gardens,  but  because  the 
critic  who  has  the  age,  experience,  and  talent  to  U'stou 
faint  praise  without  inflicting  damnation  commands  a 
high  price  and  cannot  be  wasted  on  little  authors  and 
their  little  publications.  The  beginner  often  knows  that 
he  is  writing  twaddle  and  regrets  it.  and  he  very  likely 
knows  how  to  write  in  strains  of  enthusiastic  eulogium 
or  of  viciously  cruel  abuse;  but  though  he  have  all  thc>e 
things,  he  has  not  yet  acquired  the  unaffected  charity 
which  covers  a  multitude  of  sins,  and  which  is  the  result 
of  an  ancient  and  wise  good  feeling  entertained  between 
editors,  publishers  and  critics.  He  cannot  really  feel 
mildly  well  disjiosed  towards  a  book  he  despises,  and  his 
only  chance  of  expressing  gentle  sentiments  not  his  own. 
lies  in  the  plentiful  use  of  unmitigated  twaddle.  It  lie 
remains  a  critic,  he  is  cither  lifted  out  of  the  sphere  of 
the  daily  saleable  trash  to  that  ot  serious  first  class  litera 
ture,  or  else  he  imbibes  through  the  pores  of  his  soul 
such  proportional  parts  ot  the  editor's  and  the  publisher'. 
wishes  as  shall  combine  in  his  own  character  and  produce 
tin-  qualities  \\Meh  they  both  desire  to  find  there  and  to 
sec  expressed  in  his  paragraphs. 

It  could  not  l)e  said  that  (ieorge  Wood  was  AiaoOD- 
teuted  with  what  he  found  to  do.  so  much  as  with  being 
•  "iistantly  hindered  fmm  doing  something  better.  Ami 
that  better  thing  which  he  would  have  done,  and  believed 
that  he  eould  have  .lone,  was  in  reality  far  fmm  having 
reached  the  static  of  being  clearly  detined.  He  had 
never  felt  any  strou-  liking  tor  fiction,  and  his  mind  had 
been  nourished  upon  unusually  solid  intellectual  food, 
while  the  outward  circumstances  of  his  life  had  m 


THE   THREE   FATES. 

sarily  left  much  to  his  imagination,  which  to  most  young 
men  of  live  and  twenty  is  already  matter  of  experience. 
As  a  boy  he  had  been  too  much  with  older  people,  and 
had  therefore  thought  too  much  to  be  boyish.  Possibly, 
too,  he  had  seen  more  than  was  good  for  him,  for  his 
father  had  left  him  but  a  short  time  at  school  in  the  days 
of  their  prosperity,  and,  being  unable  to  leave  New 
York  for  any  length  of  time,  had  more  than  once  sent 
him  abroad  with  an  elderly  tutor  from  whom  the  lad  had 
acquired  all  sorts  of  ideas  that  were  too  big  for  him. 
He  had  been  wrongly  supposed  to  be  of  a  delicate  con 
stitution,  too,  and  had  been  indulged  in  all  manner  of 
intellectual  whims  and  fancies,  whereby  he  had  gained 
a  smattering  of  many  sciences  and  literatures  at  an  age 
when  he  ought  to  have  been  following  a  regular  course 
of  instruction.  Then,  before  he  was  thought  old  enough 
to  enter  a  university,  the  crash  had  come. 

Jonah  Wood  was  far  too  conscientious  a  man  not  to 
sacrifice  whatever  he  could  for  the  completion  of  his 
son's  education.  For  several  years  he  deprived  himself 
of  every  luxury,  in  order  that  George  might  have  the 
assistance  he  so  greatly  needed  while  making  his  studies 
at  Columbia  College  in  his  native  city.  Then  only  did 
the  father  realise  how  he  had  erred  in  allowing  the  boy 
to  receive  the  desultory  and  aimless  teaching  that  had 
seemed  so  generous  in  the  days  of  wealth.  He  knew 
more  or  less  well  a  variety  of  subjects  of  which  his  com 
panions  were  wholly  ignorant,  but  he  was  utterly  un 
versed  in  much  of  their  knowledge.  And  this  was  not 
all,  for  George  had  acquired  from  his  former  tutor  a 
misguided  contempt  for  the  accepted  manner  of  dealing 
with  certain  branches  of  learning,  without  possessing 
that  grasp  of  the  matters  in  hand  which  alone  justifies  a 
man  in  thinking  differently  from  the  great  mass  of  his 
fellows.  It  is  not  well  to  ridicule  the  American  method 
of  doing  things  until  one  is  master  of  some  other. 

It  was  from  the  time  when  George  entered  college  that 
he  began  to  be  a  constant  source  of  disappointment  to 


TO  THK    TUKKK    FATI>. 

his  father.  The  elderly  111:111  h;ul  received  a  good,  old- 
fashioned,  thoroughly  prejudiced  education,  and  though 
he  remembered  little  Latin  and  leea  <  I  reek,  he  liad  not 
•tten  the  way  in  which  he  had  been  made  to  learn 
both,  George's  way  of  talking  about  his  studies  dis 
turbed  his  father's  sense  of  intellectual  propriety,  which 
was  great,  without  exciting  his  curiosity,  which  was 
infinitesimally  small.  With  him  also  pi  wailed  the 
paternal  view  which  holds  that  young  men  must  m 
sarily  distinguish  themselves  above  their  companions  it' 
they  really  possess  any  exceptional  talent,  and  his  pca< ••• 
of  mind  was  further  endangered  by  his  sense  of  respon 
sibility  for  George's  beginnings.  It  he  hail  believed 
that  George  was  stupid,  he  would  have  resigned  himself 
to  that  dispensation  of  Providence.  Hut  lie  thought- 
otherwise.  The  boy  was  not  an  ordinary  b«»y.  and  it'  In- 
failed  to  prove  it  by  taking  pri/es  in  competition,  he 
must  be  lazy  or  his  preparation  must,  have  been  defec 
tive.  No  other  alternative  was  to  be  found,  and  the 
fault  therefore  lay  either  with  himself  or  with  his 
father. 

George  never  (»l»t a i ned  a  pri/e.  and  barely  passed  his 
examinations  at  all.  .Jonah  Wood  made  a  point  of  see 
ing  all  his  examiners  as  well  as  the  instructors  who  had 
known  him  during  his  college  lite.  Three-ipiarters  of 
the  number  averted  that  the  young  fellow  was  undeni 
ably  elever.  and  added.  bXpNMing  themselves  witli  pro- 
•  rial  politeness,  that  his  previous  studies  sr-.-m.-d  t.» 
have  taken  a  direction  other  than  that  of  the  college 
••curriculum."  as  they  called  it.  The  pn.fe^Mi  »\  (ireek 

pic-uiiied  that  Gtaorge  mi^ht  have  distingaiflhed  himseit 

in  Latin,  the  prot'ex>.,r  of  Latin  surmised  that  (Jreek 
might  have  been  his  strong  point;  both  believed  that  he 
had  talent  for  mathematics,  while  the  mathematician 
remarked  that  he  sei-iued  to  have  a  very  good  understand 
ing,  but  that  it  would  IM-  turned  to  better  account  in  the 
pursuit,  of  classical  studie-.  .loiiah  Wood  retnnie.l  to 
his  home  very  much  disturbed  in  mind,  and  from  that 


THE   THREE   FATES.  11 

day  his  anxiety  steadily  increased.  As  it  became  more 
clear  that  his  son  would  never  accept  a  business  career, 
but  would  probably  waste  his  opportunities  in  literary 
dabbling,  the  good  man's  alarm  became  extreme.  He 
did  not  see  that  George's  one  true  talent  lay  in  his  ready 
power  of  assimilating  unfamiliar  knowledge  by  a  process 
of  intuition  that  escapes  methodical  learners,  any  more 
than  he  understood  that  the  boy's  one  solid  acquirement 
was  the  power  of  using  his  own  language.  He  was  not 
to  be  too  much  blamed,  perhaps,  for  the  young  man 
himself  was  only  dimly  conscious  of  his  yet  undeveloped 
power.  What  made  him  write  was  neither  the  pride  of 
syntax  nor  the  certainty  of  being  right  in  his  observa 
tions  ;  he  was  driven  to  paper  to  escape  from  the  torment 
of  the  desire  to  express  something,  he  knew  not  what, 
which  he  could  express  in  no  other  way.  He  found  no 
congenial  conversation  at  home  and  little  abroad,  and 
yet  he  felt  that  he  had  something  to  say  and  must  say  it. 
It  should  not  be  supposed  that  either  Jonah  Wood's 
misfortunes  or  his  poverty,  which  was  after  all  compara 
tive,  though  hard  to  bear,  prevented  George  from  mix 
ing  in  the  world  with  which  he  was  connected  by  his 
mother's  birth,  and  to  some  extent  by  his  father's  former 
position.  The  old  gentleman,  indeed,  was  too  proud  to 
renew  his  acquaintance  with  people  who  had  thought 
him  dishonourable  until  he  had  proved  himself  spotless ; 
but  the  very  demonstration  of  his  uprightness  had  been 
so  convincing  and  clear  that  it  constituted  a  patent  of 
honour  for  his  son.  Many  persons  who  had  blamed 
themselves  for  their  hasty  judgment  would  have  been 
glad  to  make  amends  by  their  cordial  reception  of  the 
man  they  had  so  cruelly  mistaken.  George,  however, 
was  quite  as  proud  as  his  father,  and  much  more  sensi 
tive.  He  remembered  well  enough  the  hard-hearted, 
boyish  stare  he  had  seen  in  the  eyes  of  some  of  his  com 
panions  when  he  was  but  just  seventeen  years  old,  and 
later,  at  college,  when  his  father's  self-sacrifice  was  fully 
known,  and  his  old  associates  had  held  out  their  hands 


12  THK    THKKl.    I  A!l>. 

tn  his  in  tin-  hope  «•!'  making  everything  right  again, 
(ieoive  had  met  tin-in  with  stony  eyes  and  scornful 
civility.  It  wax  not  easy  to  forgive,  and  with  all  his 
.lent  qualities  and  noble  honesty  <>t  purpose.  .Innnh 
\\i...d  was  not  altogether  displeased  to  know  that  his  son 
lirhl  his  head  high  and  drew  Lack  from  th»-  renewal  of 
lair  weather  i riendships.  Almost  again>t  his  will  he 
encouraged  him  in  his  conduct,  while  doing  his  best  to 
appear  at  lea>t  indit'tnvnt . 

George  needed  but  little  encouragement  to  remain  in 
social  obscurity,  though  he  was  conscious  of  a  rather 
conteni]»tihle  hope  that  he  might  one  day  play  a  part  in 
society,  surrounded  by  all  the  advantages  ot  wealth  and 
general  respect  which  belong  especially  to  those  few  who 
pOSSesa  both,  by  inheritance  rather  than  as  a  result  of 
their  own  labours.  He  was  not  quite  free  from  that 
subtle  aristocratous  taint  which  has  touched  so  man\ 
members  of  American  society.  Like  the  wind,  no  man 
can  tell  whence  it  eomes  nor  whither  it  goes:  but  unlike 
the  ill  wind  in  the  proverb  it  blows  no  good  to  any  one. 
Jt  is  not  the  breath  of  that  republican  inequality  which 
is  cau.M-d  by  two  men  extracting  a  different  degree  of 
advantage  from  the  same  circumstances;  it  is  not  the 
inevitable  inequality  produced  by  the  inevitable  struggle 

for  existelirr.    \\  ral  t  ll    and    ]  »o\\  el'  ;     bill      it     j.s    the    fictitious 

inequality  caused  by  the  pivtem-e  that  tin-  accident  of  a 
man's  birth  .should  ol  itself  emi^titute  for  him  a  claim 
to  have  speeial  oj  .port  uii  i  t  ies  made  for  him,  adapted  to 

bis  use  and  protected  by  law  for  his  particular  benefit. 

It   is  a   fallacy  which   i>  in  the  air.  and    which   threaten-, 

to  produce  evil  ennseqlH'liees  when-ver  it  1  ••  ••  ••  Hil-'s  local- 
Is,  -d. 

Perhaps,  at  s,,ine  future  time  \et  tar  distant,  a  man 
will  arise  who  shall  fathom  and  explain  the  ^n-.{\  prob 
lems  presented  by  human  vanit\.  No  more  interesting 

study  cnuld  IM-  found  \vhen-with    t -cupy    the   greatest 

mind,  and  assuredly  none  in  the  pursuit  of  which  a  man 
would  IM-  so  cMii-stimtly  confronted  by  new  and  varied 


THE   THREE    FATES.  13 

matter  for  research.  One  main  fact  at  least  we  know. 
Vanity  is  the  boundless,  circumambient  and  all-penetrat 
ing  ether  in  which  all  man's  thoughts  and  actions  have 
being  and  receive  manifestation.  All  moral  and  intel 
lectual  life  is  either  full  of  it  and  in  sympathy  with  it, 
breathing  it  as  our  bodies  breathe  the  air,  or  is  out  of 
balance  with  it  in  the  matter  of  quantity  and  is  contin 
ually  struggling  to  restore  its  own  lost  equilibrium.  It 
is  as  impossible  to  conceive  of  anything  being  done  in 
the  world  without  also  conceiving  the  element  of  vanity 
as  the  medium  for  the  action,  as  it  is  to  imagine  motion 
without  space,  or  time  without  motion.  To  say  that  any 
man  who  succeeds  in  the  race  for  superiority  of  any  sort 
is  without  vanity,  is  downright  nonsense;  to  assert  that 
any  man  can  reach  success  without  it,  would  be  to  state 
more  than  any  one  has  yet  been  able  to  prove.  Let  us 
accept  the  fact  that  we  are  all  vain,  whether  we  be  saints 
or  sinners,  men  of  action  or  men  of  thought,  men  who 
leave  our  sign  manual  upon  the  page  of  our  little  day 
or  men  who  trudge  through  the  furrows  of  a  nameless 
life  ploughing  and  sowing  that  others  may  reap  and  eat 
and  be  merry.  After  all,  does  not  our  conception  of 
heaven  suggest  to  us  a  life  from  which  all  vanity  is 
absent,  and  does  not  our  idea  of  hell  show  us  an  exist 
ence  in  which  vanity  reigns  supreme  and  hopeless,  with 
out  prospect  of  satisfaction?  Let  us  at  least  strive  that 
our  vanity  may  neither  do  injury  to  our  fellow-men,  nor 
recoil  and  become  ridiculous  in  ourselves. 

Enough  has  been  said  to  define  and  explain  the  char 
acter  and  life  of  the  young  man  whose  history  this  book 
is  to  relate.  He  himself  was  far  from  being  conscious 
of  all  his  virtues,  faults,  and  capabilities.  He  neither 
knew  his  own  energy  nor  was  aware  of  the  hidden 
enthusiasm  which  was  only  just  beginning  to  make  itself 
felt  as  a  vague,  uneasy  longing  for  something  that 
should  surpass  ordinary  things.  He  did  not  know  that 
he  possessed  singular  talents  as  well  as  unusual  defects. 
He  had  not  even  begun  to  look  upon  life  as  a  problem 


14  THE   THREE   FATES. 

offered  him  for  solution,  and  upon  his  own  heart  as  an 
object  for  his  own  study.  He  scarcely  felt  that  he  had 
a  heart  at  all.  nor  knew  where  to  look  for  it  in  others. 
His  life  was  not  happy,  and  yet  In-  had  not  tasted  the 
bitter  sources  of  real  unhappiness.  He  \\a>  oppressed 
by  his  surroundings,  but  la-  could  not  have  told  what  he 
would  have  done  with  the  most  untrammelled  liberty. 
He  despised  money,  he  worked  for  a  pittanee.  and  yet 
he  secretly  longed  for  all  that  money  could  buy.  He 
was  profoundly  attached  to  his  father,  and  yet  he  found 
the  good  man's  company  intolerable.  He  shrank  from 
a  society  in  which  he  might  have  been  a  welcome  guest, 
and  yet  he  dreamed  of  playing  a  great  part  in  it  some 
day.  He  believed  himself  cynical  when  he  was  in 
reality  quixotic,  his  idols  of  gold  were  hidden  behind 
images  of  clay,  and  he  really  eared  little  lor  those  things 
which  he  had  schooled  himself  to  admin-  the  most.  He 
fancied  himself  a  critic  when  he  was  foredestined  by  his 
nature  and  his  circumstances  to  become  an  object  of  crit 
icism  to  others.  He  forced  his  mind  to  do  what  it  found 
least  congenial,  not  acting  in  obedience  to  any  principle 
or  idea  of  duty,  but  because  he  was  sure  that  he  knew 
his  own  abilities,  and  that  no  other  path  lay  open  to 
668.  !!'•  WM  in  the  darkest  part  of  the  transition 
which  preredt-s  development,  for  lie  was  in  that  period 
during  which  a  man  makes  himself  imagine  that  he  has 
laid  hold  on  the  thread  ot  the  future,  while  something 
he  will  not  heed  warns  him  that  the  chaos  is  wilder 
than  ever  before.  In  the  dark  hour  before  manhood's 
morning  he  was  journeying  resolutely  away  from  the 
coming  dawn. 


THE   THREE   FATES.  15 


CHAPTER  II. 

"It  is  very  sad,"  observed  Mrs.  Sherrington  Trimm, 
thoughtfully.  "Their  mother  died  in  London  last 
autumn,  and  now  they  are  quite  alone  —  nobody  with 
them  but  an  aunt,  or  something  like  that  —  poor  girls! 
I  am  so  glad  they  are  rich,  at  least.  You  ought  to 
know  them." 

"Ought  I?"  asked  the  visitor  who  was  drinking  his 
tea  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire-place.  "  You  know  I  do 
not  go  into  society." 

"The  girls  go  nowhere,  either.  They  are  still  in 
mourning.  You  ought  to  know  them.  Who  knows, 
you  might  marry  one  or  the  other." 

"I  will  never  marry  a  fortune." 

"  Do  not  be  silly,  George !  " 

The  relationship  between  the  two  speakers  was  not 
very  close.  George  Winton  Wood's  mother  had  been  a 
second  cousin  of  Mrs.  Sherrington  Trimm's,  and  the  two 
ladies  had  not  been  on  very  friendly  terms  with  each 
other.  Moreover,  Mrs.  Trimm  had  nothing  to  do  with 
old  Jonah  Wood,  the  father  of  the  young  man  with 
whom  she  was  now  speaking,  and  Jonah  Wood  refused 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  her.  Nevertheless  she 
called  his  son  by  his  first  name,  and  the  latter  usually 
addressed  her  as  "Cousin  Totty."  An  examination  of 
Mrs.  Sherrington  Trimm's  baptismal  certificate  would 
have  revealed  the  fact  that  she  had  been  christened 
Charlotte,  but  parental  fondness  had  made  itself  felt 
with  its  usual  severity  in  such  cases,  and  before  she  was 
a  year  old  she  had  been  labelled  with  the  comic  diminu 
tive  which  had  stuck  to  her  ever  since,  through  five  and 
twenty  years  of  maidenhood,  and  twenty  years  more  of 
married  life.  On  her  visiting  cards,  and  in  her  formal 
invitations  she  appeared  as  Mrs.  Sherrington  Trimm; 
but  the  numerous  members  of  New  York  society  who 


16  THK    l  111;  hi.    I-.U'ES. 

related  to  her  by  blood  or  marriage,  called  her 
"Totty"  to  her  fact-,  while  those  who  claimed  no  OQH* 
nection  called  her  "Totty  "  behind  her  hark:  and  though 
she  may  livr  U-yond  three  ICON  years  and  trii.  and 
though  her  strength  come  to  sorrow  and  weakness,  .sin- 
will  \*>  "Totty"  still,  to  the  verge  (.1  the  grave,  and 
beyond,  even  alter  she  is  comfortably  laid  away  in  the 
family  vault  at  (Jreenwood. 

After  all,  the  name  was  not  inappropriate,  so  far  at 
least,  as  Mrs.  Trimm's  personal  appearance  was  oon- 
cerned;  for  she  was  very  smooth,  and  round,  and  judi 
ciously  plump,  short,  lair,  and  neatly  made,  with  pretty 
little  hands  and  feet;  active  and  not  ungraceful,  sleek 
but  not  sleepy;  having  small,  sharp  him*  eyes,  a  \«  i\ 
obliging  and  permanent  smile,  a  diminutive  pointed 
nose,  salmon-coloured  lips,  and  perfect  teeth.  Her  good 
points  did  not,  indeed,  conceal  her  age  altogether,  but 
they  obviated  all  neee»ity  lor  an  apology  to  the  world 
for  the  crime  of  growing  old;  and  those  features  which 
were  less  satisfactory  to  herself  were  far  from  being 
offensive  to  others. 

She  bore  in  her  whole  being  and  pre.senee  the  stamp 
of  a  comfortable  lite.  Tin-re  is  nothing  more  disturbing 
to  society  than  the  forced  companionship  of  a  perx.u 
who  either  i>.  or  looks,  uncomfortable,  in  body.  mind, 
or  fortune,  and  many  people  owe  their  popularity  almost 
solely  to  a  happy  faculty  of  seeming  always  at  their 
6886.  It  is  certain  that  neither  birth,  wealth,  nor  talent 
will  oi  themselves  make  man  or  woman  popular,  not 
.  when  all  three  an-  united  in  the  possession  oi  one 
individual.  P.ut  on  the  other  hand  they  are  not  draw 
backs  to  .social  BO006M)  provided  they  are  merely  means 
to  the  attainment  of  that  unobtrusively  careless  good 
humour  which  the  world  loves.  Mrs.  Sherrin 
Trimm  knew  this.  It  not  talented,  she  possessed  at  all 
ev.-ntsa  pedigVM  and  a  fortune;  and  as  for  talent,  she 
looked  upon  culture  as  an  hereditary  disease  peculiar  to 
1',.. st., mans,  and  though  not  routagiou^.  yet  lull  of  dan- 


THE   THREE   FATES.  17 

ger,  inasmuch  as  its  presence  in  a  well-organised  society 
must  necessarily  be  productive  of  discomfort.  All  the 
charm  of  general  conversation  must  be  gone,  she 
thought,  when  a  person  appeared  who  was  both  able  and 
anxious  to  set  everybody  right.  She  even  went  so  far  as 
to  say  that  if  everybody  were  poor,  it  would  be  very 
disagreeable  to  be  rich.  She  never  wished  to  do  what 
others  could  not  do;  she  only  aimed  at  being  among  the 
first  to  do  what  everybody  would  do  by  and  by,  as  a 
matter  of  course. 

Mrs.Trimm's  cousin  George  did  not  understand  this 
point  of  view  as  yet,  though  he  was  beginning  to  suspect 
that  "  Totty  and  her  friends  "  —  as  he  generally  desig 
nated  society  —  must  act  upon  some  such  principle.  He 
was  only  five  and  twenty  years  of  age,  and  could  hardly 
be  expected  to  be  in  the  secrets  of  a  life  he  had  hitherto 
seen  as  an  outsider;  but  he  differed  from  Totty  and 
her  friends  in  being  exceedingly  clever,  exceedingly 
unhappy,  and  exceedingly  full  of  aspirations,  ambitions, 
fancies,  ideas,  and  thoughts;  in  being  poor  instead  of 
rich,  and,  lastly,  in  being  the  son  of  a  man  who  had  failed 
in  the  pursuit  of  wealth,  and  who  could  not  prove  even 
the  most  distant  relationship  to  any  one  of  the  gentle 
men  who  had  signed  the  Declaration  of  Independence, 
fought  in  the  Revolution,  or  helped  to  frame  the  Consti 
tution  of  the  United  States.  George,  indeed,  possessed 
these  ancestral  advantages  through  his  mother,  and  in  a 
more  serviceable  form  through  his  relationship  to  Totty; 
but  she,  on  her  part,  felt  that  the  burden  of  his  clever 
ness  might  be  too  heavy  for  her  to  bear,  should  she 
attempt  to  launch  him  upon  her  world.  Her  sight  was 
keen  enough,  and  she  saw  at  a  glance  the  fatal  differ 
ence  between  George  and  other  people.  He  had  a  habit 
of  asking  serious  questions,  and  of  saying  serious  things, 
which  would  be  intolerable  at  a  dinner-party.  He  was 
already  too  strong  to  be  put  down,  he  was  not  yet  impor 
tant  enough  to  be  shown  off.  Totty 's  husband,  who 
was  an  eminent  lawyer,  occasionally  asked  George  to 

c 


18  THE   THKKE    FAT!  - 

dine  with  him  at  his  rluli.  and  usually  said  when  li«-  came 
Imme  that  lie  could  not  understand  tin-  boy;  but,  hem- 
of  an  inquii  -ing  disposition.  Mr.  Trimm  wa>  impelled  to 
!••]. cat  tin-  hospitality  at  intervals  tliat  gradually  became 
more  regular,  At  first  In-  lia«l  feared  that  tin-  dark, 
earnest  tact-  <.t  the  young  man,  and  his  gr8Y6 demeanour, 
concealed  tin-  soul  of  a  promising  prig,  a  social  article 
which  Sherrington  Trinmi  dopised  and  loathed.  He 
vMi.n  di^c(.\  .•!•••«!.  h<»\vcvcr.  that  thc>c  apprehension^ 
were  groundless.  From  time  t<»  time  his  companion 
gave  utterance  to  some  startling  opinion  or  hvr/inj;  bit 
of  cynicism  which  lie  had  evidently  l>een  revolving  in  his 
thoughts  for  a  long  time,  and  which  forced  .Mr.  TrimmV 
gymnastic  intelligence  into  thinking  more  serion>ly  than 
iiMial.  Doubtless  GtoOFge'fl  remarks  were  otten  paradox 
ical  and  yunthfully  wild,  but  his  hearer  liked  them  none 
the  less  for  that.  Keen  and  >ucce>stul  in  his  own  pro 
fession  he  scented  afar  the  capacity  for  success  in  other 
callings.  Accustomed  by  the  habits  and  pursuits  of  his 
own  exciting  life  to  judge  men  and  things  ipiickly.  he 
i«-ci.gni>rd  in  (ieorge  another  mode  of  the  torce  to  which 
he  himself  owed  his  reputation.  To  lay  down  the  la\\ 
and  determine  the  preci.se  manner  in  which  thai  lon-e 
should  be  used,  was  another  matter,  and  one  in  which 
Sh.-rrington  Trimm  did  not  propose  to  meddle.  More 
than  once,  indeed,  lie  asked  JiiM.rg''  what  he  meant  to  do  in 
the  world,  and  (Jeoi^e  answered,  with  a  rather  inappro 
priate  look  of  deti-rmi nation  that  he  believed  liiniM-lf  good 
for  nothing,  and  that  when  there  was  no  more  bread  and 
butter  at  home  he  should  doubtless  tind  his  own  level  b\ 
going  up  long  ladder^  with  a  hod  of  bricks  on  his  shoiil 
der.  Mr.  'rrimm'>  jovial  face  usually  expressed  his  dis 
belief  in  such  theories  b\  a  bland  smile  as  }„.  poiin-d  out 
another  glass  ,,f  wine  tor  his  young  guest.  |{,.  felt  sure 
that  GtoOIgi  would  do  snuiething.  and  GN  .  \1>lio  goA 

little  sympathy  in   his   life,  understood   his  encouraging 
•  ertainty.  and  was  urratetul. 

Mrs.  Triuiiii,    however,    shared    her    euusin's    asserted 


THE   THREE   FATES.  19 

convictions  about  himself  so  far  as  to  believe  that  unless 
something  was  done  for  him,  he  might  actually  be  driven 
to  manual  labour  for  support.  She  assuredly  had  no 
faith  in  general  cleverness  as  a  means  of  subsistence  for 
young  men  without  fortune,  and  yet  she  felt  that  she 
ought  to  do  something  for  George  Wood.  There  was  a 
good  reason  for  this  beneficent  instinct.  Her  only 
brother  was  chiefly  responsible  for  the  ruin  that  had 
overtaken  Jonah  Wood,  when  George  was  still  a  boy, 
and  she  herself  had  been  one  of  the  winners  in  the  game, 
or  at  least  had  been  a  sharer  with  her  brother  in  the 
winnings.  Tt  is  true  that  the  facts  of  the  case  had 
never  been  generally  known,  and  that  George's  father 
had  been  made  to  suffer  unjustly  in  his  reputation  after 
being  plundered  of  his  wealth;  but  Mrs.  Trimm  was  not 
without  a  conscience,  any  more  than  the  majority  of  her 
friends.  If  she  loved  money  and  wanted  more  of  it, 
this  was  because  she  wished  to  be  like  other  people,  and 
not  because  she  was  vulgarly  avaricious.  She  was  will 
ing  to  keep  what  she  had,  though  a  part  of  it  should 
have  been  George's  and  was  ill-gotten.  She  wished 
her  brother,  Thomas  Craik,  to  keep  all  he  possessed  until 
he  should  die,  and  then  she  wished  him  to  leave  it  to 
her,  Charlotte  Sherrington  Trimm.  But  she  also  desired 
that  George  should  have  compensation  for  what  his 
father  had  lost,  and  the  easiest  and  least  expensive  way 
of  providing  him  with  the  money  he  had  not,  was  to 
help  him  to  a  rich  marriage.  It  was  not,  indeed,  fitting 
that  he  should  marry  her  only  daughter,  Mamie,  though 
the  girl  was  nineteen  years  old  and  showed  a  disquieting 
tendency  to  like  George.  Such  a  marriage  would  result 
only  in  a  transfer  of  wealth  without  addition  or  multi 
plication,  which  was  not  the  form  of  magnanimity  most 
agreeable  to  cousin  Totty's  principles.  There  were  other 
rich  girls  in  the  market;  one  of  them  might  be  interested 
in  the  tall  young  man  with  the  dark  face  and  the  quiet 
manner,  and  might  bestow  herself  upon  him,  and  endow 
him  with  all  her  worldly  goods.  Totty  had  now  been 


'20  THE   THREE    FATES. 

lucky  enough  to  find  two  Mich  \oung  ladies  tniMln-r. 
orphans  both,  ami  both  of  a^e.  having  full  control  of  tin- 
large  and  equally  divided  patrimony  they  had  latch 
inherited.  Better  still,  they  were  reported  to  be  highly 
gifted  and  fond  of  clever  peoph-.  ami  she  herself  kneu 
that  they  were  both  pretty.  She  had  resolved  that 
<;.-Mi'_M-  -should  know  them  without  delay,  and  had  sent 
for  him  as  a  preliminary  step  towards  brin^iiiLj  about  the 
acquaintance.  George  met  her  at  once  with  the  plain 
statement  that  he  would  never  marry  money,  as  tin- 
phrase  goes,  but  she  treated  his  declaration  of  independ 
ence  with  appropriate  levity. 

"  Do  not  be  silly,  George!"  she  exclaimed  with  a  little 
laugh. 

"I  am  not,"  George  answered,  in  a  tone  of  conviction. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  are  clever  enough."  retorted  his 
cousin.  "  But  that  is  quite  a  different  tiling,  lies  ides, 
I  was  not  thinking  seriously  of  your  mam  in-." 

"I  guessed  as  much,  from  the  fact  of  your  mentioning 
it,"  observed  the  yoiin-  man  «piietly. 

Mrs.  Trimm  stared  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then 
laughed  attain. 

"Am  I  never  thinking  seriously  of  what  I  am  saying?" 

"Tell  me  about  these  girls,"  said  (ieorge,  avoiding  an 
an>uer.  "If  they  are  rich  and  unmarried,  they  must 
be  old  and  hideous " 

"They  are  neither." 

••  Mere  children  then 

"  Yes  —  the\   are  \oimsjer  than  you." 

"Poor  little  tiling!  1  see — you  want  me  to  pla\ 
with  them,  and  teach  them  panics  and  things  of  that 
-i.rt.  \Yliat  i>  tin-  ^ilary'.'  I  am  open  to  an  en^a^-mi-nt 
in  any  IOJM-. 'table  calling.  (  >r  jierhaps  you  would  prefer 
M  .  Macwhirter.  my  old  Dime,  It  is  true  that  she  is 
blind  of  one  c\ ,-  and  limps  a  little,  but  she  would  make 
I  i.-duetion  in  c<.n-ideiation  of  her  infirmities,  if  money 
is  an  object." 

"Try  ami  U-  M-ri«ui>;    I  want  you  to  know  them." 


THE  THKEE   FATES.  21 

"Do  I  look  like  a  man  who  wastes  time  in  laughing?" 
inquired  George,  whose  imperturbable  gravity  was  one  of 
his  chief  characteristics. 

"No  —  you  have  other  resources  at  your  command  for 
getting  at  the  same  result." 

"  Thanks.  You  are  always  flattering.  When  am  I  to 
begin  amusing  your  little  friends?  " 

"  To-day,  if  you  like.     We  can  go  to  them  at  once." 

George  Wood  glanced  down  almost  unconsciously  at 
the  clothes  he  wore,  with, the  habit  of  a  man  who  is  very 
poor  and  is  not  always  sure  of  being  presentable  at  a 
moment's  notice.  His  preoccupation  did  not  escape 
cousin  Totty,  whose  keen  instinct  penetrated  his  thoughts 
and  found  there  an  additional  incentive  to  the  execution 
of  her  beneficent  intentions.  It  was  a  shame,  she 
thought,  that  any  relation  of  hers  should  need  to  think 
of  such  miserable  details  as  the  possession  of  a  decent 
coat  and  whole  shoes.  At  the  present  moment,  indeed, 
George  was  arrayed  with  all  appropriate  correctness,  but 
Totty  remembered  to  have  caught  sight  of  him  sometimes 
when  he  was  evidently  not  expecting  to  meet  any  acquaint 
ance,  and  she  had  noticed  on  those  occasions  that  his  dress 
was  very  shabby  indeed.  It  was  many  years  since  she 
had  seen  his  father,  and  she  wondered  whether  he,  too, 
went  about  in  old  clothes,  sure  of  not  meeting  anybody 
he  knew7.  The  thought  was  not  altogether  pleasant,  and 
she  put  it  from  her.  It  was  a  part  of  her  method  of  life 
not  to  think  disagreeable  thoughts,  and  though  her  plan 
to  bring  about  a  rich  marriage  for  her  cousin  was  but  a 
scheme  for  quieting  her  conscience,  she  determined  to 
believe  that  she  was  putting  herself  to  great  inconven 
ience  out  of  spontaneous  generosity,  for  which  George 
would  owe  her  a  debt  of  lifelong  gratitude. 

George,  having  satisfied  himself  that  his  appearance 
would  pass  muster,  and  realising  that  Totty  must  have  no 
ticed  his  self-inspection,  immediately  asked  her  opinion. 

"Will  I  do?"  he  asked  with  an  odd  shade  of  shyness, 
and  glancing  again  at  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  as  though  to 


INK    THKEL     I  A  I  !.-. 

explain  what  he  meant,  well  knowing  tliat  all  explana- 
ti(»n  was  unnecessary. 

Tottv.  who  had  thoroughly  inspected  him  before  pro 
posing  that  they  should  go  out  together,  now  pretended 
to  look  him  over  with  a  critical  eye. 

"Of  course  —  perfectly."  >he  said,  after  three  or  four 
seconds.  "Wait  for  me  a  moment,  and  I  will  get  ready." 
she  added,  as  sin-  rose  and  left  tin-  room. 

When  George  was  alone,  lie  leaned  Lack  in  his  com 
fortable  chair  and  looked  at  the  familiar  objects  about 
him  with  a  weary  expression  which  he  had  not  worn 
while  his  cousin  had  been  present.  lie  could  not  tell 
exactly  why  he  came  t..  see  cousin  Tottv.  and  he  gen 
erally  went  home  after  his  visits  to  her  with  a  rague 
sense  of  disappointment.  In  the  first  place,  he  al\\a\  - 
felt  that  there  was  a  sort  of  disloyalty  in  eoining  at  all. 
He  knew  the  details  of  his  father's  past  life,  and  was 
aware  that  old  Tom  ( 'raik  had  l>een  the  cause  of  his  ruin, 
and  he  guessed  that  Tottv  had  profited  by  the  same 
catastrophe,  since  he  had  always  heard  that  her  brother 
managed  her  property.  He  even  fancied  that  Tottv  was 
not  so  harmless  &fl  she  looked,  and  that  she  was  ver\ 
fond  ot  money,  though  he  was  astonished  at  his  own 
boldness  in  susprrting  thr  faets  to  be  so  much  at  vari 
ance  with  the  outward  appearance.  He  was  very  young. 
and  he  Ira  red  to  tniM  his  own  judgment,  though  he  had 
an  intimate  conviction  that  his  instincts  were  right. 
(  Mi  the  whole  he  was  forced  to  admit  to  himsrlt  that 
there  were  many  reUODfl  againM  his  periodical  visits  to 
the  Trimms.  and  he  was  ipiite  ready  to  allow  that  it  ua> 
not  Tottv '>  per>nnalit\  or  conversation  that  attracted 
him  to  the  house.  Vet.  as  lie  rested  in  the  cushioned 
chair  he  had  selected  ami  telt  the  thick  carpet  under  his 
feet,  and  breathed  that  indefinable  atmosphere  which 
impivgnate.s  every  corner  oj  a  really  luxurious  house/ 
he  knew  that  it  would  be  very  hard  to  give  up  the  habit 
«-t  enjoying  all  these  thin->  at  regular  intervals.  He 
imagined  that  hi>  thoughts  liquefied  and  became  inure 


THE   THREE   FATES.  23 

mobile  under  the  genial  influence,  forgetting  the  grooves 
and  moulds  so  unpleasantly  familiar  to  them.  Hosts 
of  ideas  and  fancies  presented  themselves  to  him,  which 
he  recognised  as  belonging  to  a  self  that  only  came  to 
life  from  time  to  time ;  a  self  full  of  delicate  sensations 
and  endowed  with  brilliant  powers  of  expression;  a  self 
of  which  he  did  not  know  whether  to  be  ashamed  or 
proud;  a  self  as  overflowing  with  ready  appreciation,  as 
his  other  common,  daily  self  was  inclined  to  depreciate 
all  that  the  world  admired,  and  to  find  fault  with  every 
thing  that  was  presented  to  its  view.  Though  conscious 
of  all  this,  however,  George  did  not  care  to  analyse  his 
own  motives  too  closely.  It  was  disagreeable  to  his  pride 
to  find  that  he  attached  so  much  importance  to  what  he 
described  collectively  as  furniture  and  tea.  He  was 
disappointed  with  himself,  and  lie  did  all  in  his  power 
not  to  increase  his  disappointment.  Then  an  extreme 
depression  came  upon  him,  and  showed  itself  in  his  face. 
He  felt  impelled  to  escape  from  the  house,  to  renounce 
the  visit  Totty  had  proposed,  to  go  home,  get  into  his 
oldest  clothes  and  work  desperately  at  something,  no 
matter  what.  But  for  his  cousin's  opportune  return,  he 
might  have  yielded  to  the  impulse.  She  re-entered  the 
room  briskly,  dressed  for  walking  and  smiling  as  usual. 
George's  expression  changed  as  he  heard  the  latch  move 
in  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Sherrington  Trimm  must  have 
been  even  keener  than  she  was,  to  guess  what  had  been 
passing  in  his  mind.  She  was  not,  however,  in  the 
observant  mood,  but  in  the  subjective,  for  she  felt  that 
she  was  now  about  to  appear  as  her  cousin's  benefactress, 
and,  having  got  rid  of  her  qualms  of  conscience,  she 
experienced  a  certain  elation  at  her  own  skill  in  the 
management  of  her  soul. 

George  took  his  hat  and  rose  with  alacrity.  There 
was  nothing  essentially  distasteful  to  him  in  the  prospect 
of  being  presented  to  a  pair  of  pretty  sisters,  who  had 
doubtless  been  warned  of  his  coming,  and  his  foolish 
longing  for  his  old  clothes  and  his  work  disappeared  as 
suddenly  as  it  had  come. 


•2\  THE   THREE    FATES. 

It  was  still  winter,  and  the  low  afternoon  sun  fell 
across  the  avenue  from  tin*  westward  streets  in  broad 
golden  patches.  It  was  still  winter,  but  the  promise  of 
spring  was  already  in  the  air,  and  a  faint  mi>t  hung 
about  the  vanishing  point  of  the  seemingly  endless  rowa 
of  buildings.  The  trees  were  yet  far  from  budding,  but 
the  leafless  branches  no  longer  looked  dead,  and  the 
small  twigs  were  growing  smooth  and  glossy  with  the 
returning  circulation  of  the  sap.  There  were  many 
people  on  foot  in  the  avenue,  and  Totty  constantly  nodded 
and  smiled  to  her  passing  acquaintances,  who  generally 
looked  with  some  interest  at  George  as  they  acknowledged 
or  forestalled  his  companion's  salutation.  He  knew  a 
few  of  them  by  sight,  but  not  one  passed  with  whom  he 
had  ever  spoken,  and  he  felt  somewhat  foolishly  ashamed 
of  not  knowing  every  one.  When  lie  was  alone  the 
thought  did  not  occur  to  him.  hut  his  cousin's  incessant 
smiles  and  nods  made  him  realise  vividly  the  difference 
between  her  social  position  and  his  own.  lie  wondered 
whether  the  gulf  would  ever  !»*•  bridged  over,  and  whether 
at  any  future  time  those  very  correct  people  who  now 
looked  at  him  with  iin|uirin^  eyes  would  be  as  anxious 
to  know  him  and  he  recognised  by  him  a>  they  now 
seemed  desirous  of  knowing  Totty  and  being  saluted  bv 

her. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  really  remember  the 
names  ot  all  the>e  friends  of  yours?"  he  asked,  pres 
ently. 

"Why  not'.'  I  have  known  m..>t  <>l  them  linofl  I  ITU 
.1  baby,  and  they  have  known  me.  You  could  learn  their 
name*  t;i-t  enough  if  you  would  take  the  trouble." 

"Why  should  I'.'  They  do  not  want  me.  I  should 
never  be  a  part  of  their  live-." 

"Why  not?  Yon  could  if  you  liked,  and  I  am  always 
telling  you  SO.  Society  never  u.mts  anybody  who  doe^ 
not  want  it.  It  i-  t'«»und«-d  on  the  principle  of  giving 
and  receiving  in  return.  If  yon  >how  that  you  like 
people,  they  will  >lm\\  that  they  like  you." 


THE   THREE   FATES.  25 

"  That  would  depend  upon  my  motives. " 

Mrs.  Sherrington  Trimm  laughed,  lowered  her  parasol, 
and  turned  her  head  so  that  she  could  see  George's  face. 

"  Motives !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Nobody  cares  about 
your  motives,  provided  you  have  good  manners.  It  is 
only  in  business  that  people  talk  about  motives." 

"  Then  any  adventurer  who  chose  might  take  his  place 
in  society,"  objected  George. 

"  Of  course  he  might  —  and  does.  It  occurs  constantly, 
and  nothing  unpleasant  happens  to  him,  unless  he  makes 
love  in  the  wrong  direction  or  borrows  money  without 
returning  it.  Unfortunately  those  are  just  the  two 
things  most  generally  done  \)j  adventurers,  and  then 
they  come  to  grief.  A  man  is  taken  at  his  own  valuation 
in  society,  until  he  commits  a  social  crime  and  is  found 
out. " 

"You  think  there  would  be  nothing  to  prevent  my 
going  into  society,  if  I  chose  to  try  it?  " 

"  Nothing  in  the  world,  if  you  will  follow  one  or  two 
simple  rules." 

"And  what  may  they  be?"  inquired  George,  becoming 
interested. 

"  Let  me  see  —  in  the  first  place  —  dear  me !  how  hard 
it  is  to  explain  such  things !  I  should  say  that  one  ought 
never  to  ask  a  question  about  anybody,  unless  one  knows 
the  answer,  and  knows  that  the  person  to  whom  one  is 
speaking  will  be  glad  to  talk  about  the  matter.  One 
may  avoid  a  deal  of  awkwardness  by  not  asking  a  man 
about  his  wife,  for  instance,  if  she  has  just  applied  for 
a  divorce.  But  if  his  sister  is  positively  engaged  to 
marry  an  English  duke,  you  should  always  ask  about 
her.  That  kind  of  conversation  makes  things  pleasant." 

"I  like  that  view,"  said  George.  "Give  me  some 
more  advice." 

"  Never  say  anything  disagreeable  about  any  one  you 
know. " 

"That  is  charitable,  at  all  events." 

"Of  course  it  is;  and,  now  I  think  of  it,  charity  is 


26  THE    THREE    KATES. 

it  ally  the  foundation  of  good  society,"  continued   M 
Trimm  very  sweetly. 

"You  mean  a  charitable  silence.  I  suppose." 

"Not  always  silence.  Saying  kind  words  about  people 
you  hate  is  charitable,  too." 

"I  should  call  it  lyin-."  (ii-nrgr  observed. 

Totty  was  shocked  at  such  blunt  in- 

"That  is  far  too  strong  language,"  she  answ.  red, 
ning  to  look  as  she  did  in  church. 

"Gratuitous  mendacity,"  suggested  her  companion. 
"Is  the  word  'lie'  in  tin-  swearing  dictionary?" 

"Perhaps  not  —  but  after  all.  (leorge."  continued 
Mrs.  Trim m  with  sudden  fervour,  "there  are  often  \er\ 
nice  things  to  be  said  quite  truly  about  people  we  do  not 
like,  and  it  is  certainly  charitable  and  magnanimous  t<> 
say  them  in  spite  of  our  personal  feelings,  one  ma\ 
just  as  well  leave  out  tin-  disagreeable  things." 

"Satan  is  a  fallen  angrl.  You  hate  him  of  OOOTSe. 
If  he  chanced  to  l>e  in  society  you  would  leave  out  the 
detail  of  the  fall  and  say  that  Satan  is  an  angel.  Is  that 
it?" 

"  Approximately/'  laughed  Totty,  who  was  less  shocked 
at  the  mention  of  the  devil  than  at  hearing  tact  called 
lyin.u'-  "  I  think  you  would  succeed  in  society.  By-the- 
bye.  there  i>  another  thing.  You  must  never  talk  about 
culture  and  books  and  such  things,  unless  some  celebrity 
U-gins  it.  That  is  most  important,  yon  know.  Of 
OOOne  V'M  u""'il(l  not  lik'1  to  fed  that  you  were  talking 
of  thm-^  which  other  people  could  not  understand,  would 
you?" 

•'  What  should  I  talk  about,  then?" 

"  <  >h  —  people,  ot  fniir.se.  and  —  and  horsc.s  and  things  — 
yachting  and  fa>hions  and  what  peojde  p-nerallv  do." 

•'  I'.llt     I     know    so    tew    J.eoj.le."   (.bj.-cted    (leor^e.    "and 

as  for  horses.  I  have  not  ridden  since  I  was  a  boy,  ami  I 
never  was  on  board  of  a  yacht,  and  I  do  not  care  a  strau 

for  the  t'a.shimis." 

"Well,   really,  then   I   hardly  know.       IVrhaps  you  had 


THE   THREE   FATES.  27 

better  not  talk  much  until  you  have  learned  about 
things." 

"Perhaps  not.  Perhaps  I  had  better  not  try  society 
after  all." 

"Oh,  that  is  ridiculous!  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Trimm,  who 
did  not  want  to  discourage  her  pupil.  "Now,  George, 
be  a  good  boy,  and  do  not  get  such  absurd  notions  into 
your  head.  You  are  going  to  begin  this  very  day." 

"Am  I?"  inquired  the  young  man  in  a  tone  that 
promised  very  little. 

"  Of  course  you  are.  And  it  will  be  easy,  too,  for  the 
Fearing  girls  are  clever  — 

"Does  that  mean  that  I  may  talk  about  something 
besides  horses,  fashions,  and  yachting?" 

"How  dreadfully  literal  you  are,  George!  I  did  not 
mean  precisely  those  things,  only  I  could  think  of  noth 
ing  else  just  at  that  moment.  I  know,  yes  —  you  are 
going  to  ask  if  I  ever  think  of  anything  else.  Well,  I  do 
sometimes  —  there,  now  do  be  good  and  behave  like  a 
sensible  being.  Here  we  are." 

They  had  reached  a  large,  old-fashioned  house  in 
Washington  Square,  which  George  had  often  noticed 
without  knowing  who  lived  in  it,  and  which  had  always 
attracted  him.  He  liked  the  quiet  neighbourhood,  so 
near  the  busiest  part  of  the  city  and  yet  so  completely 
separated  from  it,  and  he  often  went  there  alone  to  sit 
upon  one  of  the  benches  under  the  trees  and  think  of  all 
that  might  have  been  even  then  happening  to  him  if 
things  had  not  been  precisely  what  they  were.  He  stood 
upon  the  door-step  and  rang  the  bell,  wondering  at  the 
unexpected  turn  his  day  had  taken,  and  wondering  what 
manner  of  young  women  these  orphan  sisters  might  be, 
with  whom  cousin  Totty  was  so  anxious  to  make  him 
acquainted.  His  curiosity  on  this  head  was  soon  satis 
fied.  In  a  few  seconds  he  found  himself  in  a  sombrely- 
furnished  drawing-room,  bowing  before  two  young  girls, 
while  Mrs.  Trimm  introduced  him. 

••  M>.  Winton  Wood  —  my  cousin  George,  you  know. 


28  THE    THKKI     FATES. 

You  got  my  m >tc7  Yes —  so  sweet  of  you  to  be  at  home. 
Tins  is  Miss  Constance  I-Yaring.  and  this  is  Mi—  <irace. 
Ueorge.  Thanks.  QO— W6  have  just  been  having  tea. 
Yes  —  we  walked.  Tin-  weather  is  perfectly  lovely,  and 
now  tell  me  all  about  yourself.  Conny  dear:  " 

Thereupon  Mrs.  Sherrington  Triiinn  took  Miss  Con 
stance  Fearing  l>eside  her,  held  her  hand  affectionately, 
and  engaged  in  an  animated  conversation  of  smiles  and 
questions,  leaving  George  to  amuse  tin-  younger  sister  as 
best  he  could. 

At  tirst  sight  there  appeared  to  he  a  strong  ro.-m- 
blanee  l>etween  th<-  two  urirl^.  \\  Inch  was  much  increased 
by  their  Ix^th  ln-ing  drt-ssrd  in  l»la«-k  and  in  pn-risrly  the 
same  manner.  They  were  very  nearly  of  the  same  aur''. 
Constance  bein^  l»arely  twenty-two  years  nld  and  her 
sister  just  twenty,  though  Mrs.  Trimm  had  said  that  Imtli 
had  reached  their  majority.  I'.oth  were  tall,  graceful 
girls,  well-proportioned  in  e\rry  way.  easy  in  their  bear 
ing,  their  heads  well  set  upon  their  shoulders,  altogether 
well  grown  and  well  bred.  Hut  there  was  in  reality  a 
marked  difference  between  them.  Constance  wa>  fairer 
and  more  delicate  than  her  younger  sister,  evidently  less 
>eH'-reliant  and  probably  less  strong.  Her  eyes  were 
blue  and  quiet,  and  her  hair  had  golden  tinges  not  to  be 
found  in  <J  race's  dark-brown  locks.  Her  complexion 
wa>  more  tr:m>parent.  her  even  eyebrows  less  strongly 
marked,  her  >eii>it  ive  lij,>  ]e^  firm.  Of  the  two  she  was 
evidently  th»-  more  gentle  and  feminine,  (irace's  voice 
was  deep  and  smooth,  whereas  Constance  spoke  in  a 
higher  though  a  softer  key.  It  was  e,i>\  to  >ee  that 
''oiistancr  would  be  the  one  more  quickly  moved  by 
womanh  sympathies  and  passions,  and  that  (irace.  on 
the  contrary,  \\ouhl  i>e  at  once  more  obstinate  and  more 
sure  of  hers, -If. 

(reorge  was  pleasantly  impressed  by  Imtli  from  the 
tirst.  and  especially  by  the  odd  contrast  between  them 
and  their  surroundings.  The  house  was  old-fashioned 
within  as  well  as  without.  It  was  clear  that  the  girls' 


THE   THREE    FATES.  29 

father  and  mother  had  been  conservatives  of  the  most 
severe  type.  The  furniture  was  dark,  massive,  and 
imposing;  the  velvet  carpet  displayed  in  deeper  shades 
of  claret,  upon  a  claret-coloured  ground,  that  old  familial- 
pattern  formed  by  four  curved  scrolls  which  enclose  as  in 
a  lozenge  an  imposing  nosegay  of  almost  black  roses. 
Full-length  portraits  of  the  family  adorned  the  walls, 
and  the  fire-place  was  innocent  of  high  art  tiles,  being 
composed  of  three  slabs  of  carved  white  marble,  two 
upright  and  one  horizontal,  in  the  midst  of  which  a 
black  grate  supported  a  coal  lire.  Moreover,  as  in  all 
old  houses  in  New  York,  the  front  drawing-room  com 
municated  with  a  second  at  the  back  of  the  first  by  great 
polished  mahogany  folding-doors,  which,  being  closed, 
produce  the  impression  that  one-half  of  the  room  is  a 
huge  press.  There  were  stiff  sofas  set  against  the  wall, 
stiff  corner  bookcases  filled  with  histories  expensively 
bound  in  dark  tree  calf,  a  stiff  mahogany  table  under  an 
even  stiffer  chandelier  of  gilded  metal ;  there  were  two 
or  three  heavy  easy-chairs,  square,  dark  and  polished 
like  everything  else,  and  covered  with  red  velvet  of  the 
same  colour  as  the  carpet,  each  having  before  it  a  foot 
stool  of  the  old  style,  curved  and  made  of  the  same 
materials  as  the  chairs  themselves.  A  few  modern 
books  in  their  fresh,  perishable  bindings  showed  the 
beginning  of  a  new  influence,  together  with  half  a  dozen 
magazines  and  papers,  and  a  work-basket  containing  a 
quantity  of  coloured  embroidering  silks. 

George  looked  about  him  as  he  took  his  place  beside 
Grace  Fearing,  and  noticed  the  greater  part  of  the  details 
just  described. 

"Are  you  fond  of  horses,  yachting,  fashions,  and 
things  people  generally  do,  Miss  Fearing?  "  he  inquired. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  answered  Grace,  fixing  her  dark 
eyes  upon  him  with  a  look  of  cold  surprise. 


30  THE    THREE    FATES. 


CHAI'TKR    III. 

The  starr  of  astonishment  \vith  \vliicli   (ira<-e    Kearing 
met  George's  singular  method  of  beginning  a  oonrersi 
tion  rather  disconcerted  him,  although  lie  had  half  •  \ 
peeted  it.     He  had  asked  the  question  while  still  under 
the  impression  of  Totty's  absurd  adviee.  unable  any  longer 
to  refrain  from  communicating  his  feelings  to  some  one. 

"  You  seem  surprised, "  he  said.  "1  will  explain.  I 
do  not  care  a  straw  for  any  of  those  things  myself,  Imt 
as  we  walked  here  my  cousin  was  giving  me  a  lecture 
about  conversation  in  society." 

"And  she  advised  you  to  talk  to  us  about  hones?" 
inquired  Miss  Grace,  beginning  to  smile. 

"No.  Not  to  you.  She  gave  me  to  understand  that 
you  were  both  very  clever,  but  she  gave  me  a  list  of 
things  alxmt  which  a  man  should  talk  in  general  society, 
and  I  flatter  myself  that  I  have  remembered  the  cata 
logue  pretty  accurately." 

"Indeed  you  have!  "     This  time  Grace  laughed. 

"  Yes.  And  now  that  we  have  eliminated  hor>e-. 
yachts,  and  fashions,  by  mutual  consent,  shall  we  talk 
about  less  important  thin. 

rtainly.       When-  shall  we  begin?11 

"With  whatever  you  prefer.  What  do  you  like  best 
in  the  world?" 

"My  sister,"  answered  <iia«-e  promptly. 

"That     answers     the     question.     'Whom    do    you     like 
-?" 

"Very  well.   Mi.  Wood,  and  whom  do  you  like  best?" 

"Myself,     of    eiilir.se.         Kvervbod\  -.eept     people 

who  have  listen  like  \<>\i\^." 

"Are  you  an  BgOtlst,   then'.'" 

"Not    by    intention,    but    by   ori-inal    sin.    and   by  the 
lault  ot  fate  \\hieh  has  omitted  to  -ive  me  a  sister." 
••  lla\e  you  no  near  relations'.'" 


THE  THREE   FATES.  31 

"  T  have  my  father. " 

"  And  you  are  not  more  fond  of  him  than  of  yourself?  " 

"Is  one  not  bound  to  believe  one's  father,  when  he 
speaks  on  mature  reflection,  and  is  a  very  good  man 
besides?" 

"Yes  —  I  suppose  so." 

"  Very  well.  My  father  says  that  I  love  myself  better 
than  any  one  else.  That  is  good  evidence,  for,  as  you 
say,  he  must  be  right.  How  do  you  know  that  you  love 
your  sister  more  than  yourself?  " 

"  I  think  I  would  sacrifice  more  for  her  than  I  would 
for  myself." 

"Then  you  must  be  subject  to  a  natural  indolence 
which  only  affection  for  another  can  overcome." 

"I  am  not  lazy,"  objected  Grace. 

"Pardon  me.  What  is  a  sacrifice,  in  the  common 
meaning  of  the  word?  (living  up  something  one  likes. 
To  make  a  sacrifice  for  oneself  means  to  give  up  some 
thing  one  likes  for  the  sake  of  one's  own  advantage  — 
for  instance,  to  give  up  sleeping  too  much,  in  order  to 
work  more.  Not  to  do  so,  is  to  be  lazy.  Laziness  is  a 
vice.  Therefore  it  is  a  vice  not  to  sacrifice  as  much  as 
possible  to  one's  own  advantage.  Virtue  is  the  opposite 
of  vice.  Therefore  selfishness  is  a  virtue." 

"  What  dreadful  sophistry !  " 

"  You  cannot  escape  the  conclusion  that  one  ought  to 
love  oneself  at  least  quite  as  much  as  any  one  else,  since 
to  be  unwilling  to  take  as  much  trouble  for  one's  own 
advantage  as  one  takes  for  that  of  other  people  is  mani 
festly  an  acute  form  of  indolence,  and  is  therefore  vicious 
and  a  cardinal  sin." 

"Selfishness  is  certainly  a  deadly  virtue,"  retorted 
Grace. 

"  Can  that  be  called  deadly  which  provides  a  man  with 
a  living?  "  asked  George. 

"  That  is  all  sophistry  —  sophistical  chaff,  and  nothing 
else." 

"The   original   sophists   made   a   very  good  living," 


82  IHI.    i  HI:I;I     i  \  n-:s. 

objected  <ieorU'e.      "Is  it  n.it  better  to  ur«-t   ;t   living  as  a 
sophist  than  to  starve?" 

"Do  JTOtt  make  a  living  by  it.  Mr.  Wood'.'" 

"No.  I  am  imt  a  lawyer,  and  times  have  changed 
.sine*-  <  , 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you,"  said  (Irace.  "that  Mrs. 
Trimm  lias  calumniated  me.  I  am  not  oleveP,  and  I 
do  not  know  who  (lor^ias  was." 

"I  beur  your  pardon  lor  mentioning  him.  1  only 
wanted  to  show  off  my  culture.  He  is  of  no  impor 
tance ;' 

"  Ves  he  is.  Since  ydu  have  spoken  of  him.  tell  me 
who  In-  was." 

"A  sophist,  and  one  of  the  tnM  ot  them.  He  puh- 
lished  a  book  to  prove  that  Helen  ot  Troy  was  an  ani^i-1 
of  virtue,  he  fattened  on  the  proeeeds  of  his  talking  and 
writing,  till  he  was  a  hundred  years  old.  and  then  he 
died.  The  tiling  will  not  do  now.  Several  people  have 
lately  defended  Lucivtia  P.or^ia.  without  fattening  to 
any  great  extent.  That  is  the  reason  I  would  like  to  U- 
a  lawyer.  Lawyers  defend  living  clients  and  an-  well 
paid  for  it.  Look  at  Sherry  Trimm,  my  cousin's  Inis- 
Icnid.  Do  you  know  him'.'  " 

••  \ 

"He  is  tat  and  well-liking.  And  .Johnny  Bond  —  do 
you  know  him  tOO?  " 

"Of  Course."  answered  (iraee.  with  an  almost  imper- 
rei.tiltle  frown.  "  II e  i^  t o  1  »•  V  r.  Trim m's  partner  soon." 

"  \\'ell,  \\hen  he  i^  toity,  he  \\  ill  l»e  as  sleek  and  round 
as  Sherry  Trimm  himselt." 

"  \\'ill    he'.'"     aske.l    the    \,.Hli;4   ^i,-]    Witll    Some    coldlie^. 

"  1'rol.al.ly.  since  he  will  he  rich  and  happy.  Moral 
and  physical  rotundity  is  the  natural  attribute  of  all  rich 
and  happy  persons.  It  would  be  a  pity  if  Johnny  LTIVW 
very  fat.  he  is  such  a  handsome  fellow." 

"I  suppose  it  could  not  he  helped,"  said  (Jrace.  indif 
ferently.  "What  do  \oii  mean  bv  moral  rotundit  \ .  Mr. 
Wood?" 


THE   THREE   FATES.  33 

"Inward  and  spiritual  grace  to  be  always  right.'' 

At  this  point  Totty,  who  had  said  all  she  had  to  say 
to  Constance,  and  was  now  only  anxious  to  say  it  all 
over  again  to  ({race,  made  a  movement  and  nodded  to 
her  cousin. 

"Come,  George,"  she  said,  "take  my  place,  and  I  will 
take  yours." 

George  rose  with  considerable  reluctance  and  crossed 
the  room.  There  was  something  in  Grace  Fearing's 
manner  which  gave  him  courage  in  conversation,  and  he 
had  felt  at  his  ease  with  her.  Xow,  however,  the  ice  must 
be  broken  afresh  with  the  other  sister.  Unlike  Mrs. 
Trimm,  he  did  not  want  to  repeat  himself,  and  he  was 
somewhat  embarrassed  as  to  how  lie  should  begin  in  a 
new  strain.  To  his  surprise,  however,  his  new  compan 
ion  relieved  him  of  any  responsibility  in  this  direction. 
AVhile  listening  as  much  as  was  necessary  to  Totty's 
rambling  talk,  she  had  been  watching  the  young  man's 
face  from  a  distance.  Her  sympathetic  nature  made  her 
more  observant  than  her  sister,  and  she  spent  much  time 
in  speculating  upon  other  people's  thoughts.  George 
interested  her  from  the  first.  There  was  something 
about  him,  of  which  he  himself  was  wholly  unconscious, 
which  distinguished  him  from  ordinary  men,  and  which 
it  was  hard  to  define.  Few  people  would  have  called 
him  handsome,  though  no  one  could  have  said  that  lie 
was  ugly.  His  head  was  strongly  modelled,  with  promi 
nent  brows,  and  great  hollows  in  the  temples.  The 
nose  was  straight,  but  rather  too  long,  as  is  generally 
the  case  with  melancholy  people;  and  the  thin,  dark 
moustache  did  not  conceal  the  scornful  expression  of  the 
mouth.  The  chin  would  have  been  the  better  for  a  little 
more  weight  and  prominence,  and  the  whole  face  might 
have  been  more  attractive  had  it  been  less  dark  and  thin. 
As  for  the  rest,  the  man  was  tall  and  well  built,  though 
somewhat  too  lean  and  angular,  and  he  carried  himself 
well,  whether  in  motion  or  repose.  He  was  evidently 
melancholic,  nervous,  and  impressionable,  as  might  be 

D 


!U  i  in     i  in:t  K   i  A  n:>. 

•6611  t'n»m  his  brown  and  sinewy  liaii.ls.  .if  \vliich  the 
smooth  and  pointed  tinkers  contrasted  oddly  with  the 
strength  of  the  lower  part.  Hut  tin-  most  minute 
Mption  of  George  Wood's  physical  characteri>t  i«-s 
would  convey  no  such  impression  as  In-  produced  upon 
those  who  first  saw  liim.  Iff  was  discontented  with 
himself  as  well  as  with  his  surroundings,  and  his  temper 
was  clouded  1>\  perpetual  disappoint  ment.  Sometimes 
dull  and  apathetic,  there  were  moments  when  a  vicious 
energy  gleamed  in  his  dark  eyes,  and  when  he  looked 
like  what  lighting  men  eall  an  ujjlv  <-ustonier.  Mirth 
was  never  natural  to  him,  and  when  he  laughed  aloud 
then-  W*l  >earcely  the  semlilancc  of  a  smile  upon  hi.s 
teature-.  \t-\  he  had  a  keen  861186  "f  humour,  and  a 
facility  for  exhiliitiiiL;  the  ridicuhms  .side  of  things  to 
others. 

"\Vhat  do  you  do.  Mr.  Wood'.'"  a>k«-d  <'onstance 
Fearing,  when  he  was  >eatcd  Keside  her. 

"Nothing  —  and  HOt  even  that   gracefully." 

Constance  did  not  laugh  as  she  looked  at  him,  hu 
t-here  was  something  at  once  earnest  and  hitter  in  the 
v,  ay  he  spoke. 

"Why  do  you  do  nothing1.'"  she  asked.  "  Kvery  body 
works  nowaday  B.  N'oii  do  not  look  like  a  professed  idler. 
1  suppose  vou  mean  that  von  are  studying  for  a  profe-,- 


"Not    exactly,       I    believe    my    studies   are    ->aid   to   he 
finished.       1  sometimes  write  a  little." 

•'  N  that  all'.'      l>o  you  never  publish  anytime.:  '.'  " 

"  <  Ml    \  es;     count  ION    tllili 

"  Keally  '.'      I  am  afraid  I  cannot  remember  seeing  -  '' 

•    My  name  in  print'.'      No.      There  i>   but   one  copy  of 

my  published  works,  and  that   is  in  m\   pOMe0ttOQ.      The 

-  |.  resent  an  irraglllar  appearance  and  sim-11  of  paste. 

Vou  do  not  undei-->tan«r.'      M\    valuable  p.-rformaiiees  are 

-ionally   printed   in  one  of    the   daily    papers.      I  cut 

them  out.  when   I  am   not   too  la/y.   and    keep   them    in   a 

-e  i  up-book. 


THE    THREE    FATES.  85 

"Then  you  are  a  journalist?'1 

"Not  from  the  journalist's  point  of  view.  He  calls 
me  a  paid  contributor ;  and  when  I  am  worse  paid  than 
usual,  I  call  him  by  worse  names.'' 

"  I  do  not  understand  —  if  you  can  be  what  you  call  a 
paid  contributor,  why  not  be  a  journalist?  What  is  the 
difference?" 

"The  one  is  a  professional,  the  other  is  an  amateur. 
I  am  the  other." 

"Why  not  be  a  professional,  then?" 

"Because  I  do  not  like  the  profession." 

"What  would  you  like  to  be?  Surely  you  must  have 
some  ambition. " 

"None  whatever,  I  assure  you."  There  was  an  odd 
look  in  George's  eyes,  not  altogether  in  accordance  with 
his  answer.  "I  should  prefer  to  live  a  student's  life, 
since  I  must  live  a  life  of  some  kind.  I  should  like  to 
be  always  my  own  master  —  if  you  would  give  me  my 
choice,  there  are  plenty  of  things  I  should  like.  But  I 
cannot  have  them." 

"Most  of  us  are  in  that  condition,"  said  Constance, 
rather  thoughtfully. 

"Are  we?  Is  there  anything  in  the  world  that  you 
want  and  cannot  have  ?  " 

"Yes.     Many  things." 

"No,  I  mean  concrete  things,"  George  insisted.  "Of 
course  I  know  that  you  have  the  correct  number  of  moral 
and  intellectual  aspirations.  You  would  like  to  be  a 
heroine,  a  saint,  and  the  managing  partner  of  a  great 
charity;  you  would  like  to  be  a  scholar,  historian,  a 
novelist,  and  you  would  certainly  like  to  be  a  great 
poetess.  You  would  probably  like  to  lead  the  fashion 
in  some  particular  way,  for  I  must  allow  you  a  little 
vanity  with  so  much  virtue,  but  on  Sundays,  in  church, 
you  would  like  to  forget  that  there  are  such  things  as 
fashions.  Of  course  you  would.  But  all  that  is  not 
what  I  mean.  When  I  speak  of  wants,  I  mean  wants 
connected  with  real  life.  Have  you  not  everything  you 


86  1  lit.      I  HIM. I.     1     VTES. 

desire,  in-  could  you  not  have  e\  er\  tiling'.'  I  f  you  do  not 
like  New  York,  ran  you  not  ^..  and  live  in  SiU-ria1.'  It 
\oudo  not  like  your  house,  can  you  not  turn  it  inside 
OHt  and  np0id6  down  and  trim  it  with  ^reen  parakeet  's 
wiiius.  it  you  please'.'  It'  you  have  wants.  thev  art- 
moral  and  intellectual." 

"But  all  tin-  things  you  speak  of  merely  depend  upon 
money,"  said  Constance  a  little  sh\l\.  "The\  ate 
merely  material  wants  —  or  rather,  according  to  your 
description,  capric.  x. 

"I  do  not  call  my  desire  to  h-ad  tlie  unmolested  lite  ot 
a  Student  either  a  caprice  or  a  material  want.  l»ut  the 
accomplishment  "f  my  wish  de].eiids  lar^'ly  upon  money 
and  very  little  upon  anything  «•!>,.." 

Constance  looked  fiirtivt-ly  at  her  companion,  who  ->at 
beside  her  with  folded  hands,  apparent  1\  c,)]itcmplat  in- 
his  shoes.  He  had  spoken  \er\  quietly,  Imt  his  ton.- 
was  that  of  the  most  protound  emitempt.  whether  tor 
himself,  or  for  the  wealth  he  was  weak  enough  to  desire. 
it  was  impossible  to  say.  Coiotance  felt  that  she  was  in 
the  presence  of  a  nature  she  did  not  understand,  though 
she  was  to  some  extent  interested  and  attracted  l»y  it. 
It  is  Very  hard  for  people  who  pOOMM  e\  n-yt  hin-  that 
moiify  can  .i^ive.  and  have  always  jiossessed  it.  to  com 
prehend  the  effect  of  poverty  Upon  a  sensitive  person. 

('oiotance,  indeed,  had  no  exact  idea  of  (ieor^e  \\'<'«M!\ 
financial  portion.  He  mi^ht  l>e  really  poor,  for  all  she 
knew,  or  he  mi^lit  !•••  onl\  relatively  impeeiinious.  She 
inclined  to  the  latter  theory,  partly  l»eeau>e  he  had  not 
the  indescrilialile  look  which  is  .supposed  to  l.elon^  to  a 
]»oor  man.  and  partly  on  account  of  his  n-adiness  to 
.speak  of  what  he  wanted.  A  person  of  less  keen  intui 
tions  would  prohalily  have  Keen  repelled  l»y  what  mi-lit 
have  Keen  taken  lor  vulgar  discontent  and  OOTefcOOflnetS. 
T.iit  Constance  Fea ring's  pereej.tinns  were  more  delicate. 
Sin-  telt  instinctively  that  ( Ieor.ure  wa>  not  what  lie  repre- 
-i-ntt-d  hiniself  to  he.  that  he  wa>  neither  weak.  M-ltisli. 
nor  idle,  and  that  those  who  Kelieved  him  to  Ke  s..  \\oiild 


THE   THKEE    FATES.  37 

before  long  find  themselves  mistaken.  She  made  no 
answer  to  his  last  words,  however,  and  there  was  silence 
for  a  few  moments. 

Then  George  began  to  speak  of  her  return  to  New 
York,  and  fell  into  a  very  commonplace  kind  of  conver 
sation,  which  he  sustained  with  an  effort,  and  with  a 
certain  sensation  of  awkwardness.  Presently  Totty,  who 
had  finished  the  second  edition  of  her  small  talk,  rose 
from  her  seat  and  began  the  long  operation  of  leave- 
taking,  which  was  performed  with  all  the  usual  repeti 
tions,  effusive  phrases,  and  affectionalities,  if  such  a 
word  may  be  coined,  which  are  considered  appropriate 
and  indispensable.  As  a  canary  bird  pecks  at  a  cherry, 
chirps,  skips  away,  hops  back,  pecks,  chirps,  and  skips 
again  and  again  many  times,  so  do  certain  women  say 
good-bye  to  the  dear  friends  they  visit.  Meanwhile 
George  stood  at  hand,  holding  his  hat  and  ready  to  go. 

"I  hope  we  shall  see  you  again,"  said  Constance  as 
she  gave  him  her  hand. 

"May  I  come?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course.  We  are  generally  at  home  about  this 
time." 

At  last  Totty  tore  herself  away,  and  the  ponderous 
front  door  closed  behind  her  and  her  cousin  as  they  came 
out  into  the  purple  light  that  flooded  Washington  Square. 

"  Well,  George,  I  hope  you  were  properly  impressed, '' 
said  Mrs.  Sherrington  Trimm,  when  they  had  walked  a 
few  steps  and  were  near  the  corner  of  the  avenue. 

"Profoundly." 

"In  what  way?     Come,  be  confidential." 

"In  what  way?  AVhy,  I  think  that  the  father  and 
mother  of  those  girls  must  have  been  very  rich,  very 
dull,  and  very  respectable.  I  never  saw  anything  like 
the  solidity  of  the  furniture." 

Totty  was  never  quite  sure  whether  George  was  in 
earnest  or  was  laughing  at  her. 

"Did  you  spend  your  time  in  looking  at  the  chairs?" 
she  asked  rather  petulantly. 


88  INK    THKKK     I    LTB8, 

••Partly.  I  «mld  not  help  teeing  them.  I  believe  I 
talked  a 'little." 

"I  ho]>e  you  were  sensible.  What  did  you  talk  about:1 
1  do  not  think  the  Fearing  girls  would  thoroughly  appre 
ciate  the  style  of  wit  with  which  you  generallv  favour 
me." 

"  You  need  not  be  cross,  cousin  Totty.  I  believe  I  was 
decently  agreeable." 

"Oh!  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Triiuin. 

"  You  think  I  flatter  myself,  do  you?  I  daresay.  The 
(•pinion  of  the  young  ladies  would  be  more  valuable  than 
my  own.  At  all  events  my  conscience  does  not  reproach 
me  with  having  been  more  dull  than  usual,  and  as  tor  the 
turniture,  you  will  admit  that  it  was  very  impressive." 

"Well,"  sighed  Totty,  "I  suppose  that  is  your  way  of 
looking  at  things."  She  did  not  know  exactly  what  she 
wanted  him  to  say,  but  she  was  sure  that  he  had  not  said 
it,  and  that  his  manner  was  most  unsatisfactory.  They 
walked  on  in  silence. 

"I  am  tired,"  she  said,  at  last,  as  they  reached  the 
corner  of  the  Brevoort  House.  u  I  will  go  home  in  a  cab. 
Good-bye." 

George  opened  the  door  of  one  of  the  numerous 
broughams  .stationed  before  the  hotel,  and  helped  his 
OOnsin  to  get  in.  She  nodded  rather  indifferently  to  him. 
Bfl  -he  was  driven  away,  and  lelt  him  somewhat  at  a  lo>- 
to  account  for  her  sudden  ill  temper.  Indei  any  ordi- 
narv  circumstances  she  would  assuredly  have  bid  him 
»-nter  the  carriage  with  her  and  drive  as  far  as  her  house, 
in  order  to  >ave  him  a  part  of  the  long  distance  to  his  own 
home.  The  yo  iing  man  stood  still  tor  a  moment  and  then 
turned  into  Clinton  1'laee.  walking  rapidly  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  elevated  mad. 

lie    had    spoken  (piite  truly  when  he  had  .said  that  tin- 
visit   he  had  just   made  had  produced  a  profound  impi-  - 
sion  on  him.  and  it   was  in  accordance  with  his  character 
to  keep  that  impression  to  himself.      It    was  not  that   he 
lelt    himself  attracted   by  either  ..ne  i>(    the   >i>ters   more 


THE   THREE   FATES.  39 

than  by  the  other.  He  had  not  fallen  in  love  at  first  sight, 
nor  lost  his  heart  to  a  vision  of  beatitude  that  had  only 
just  received  a  name.  But  as  he  walked  he  saw  con 
stantly  before  him  the  two  graceful  young  girls  in  their 
simple  black  dresses,  full  of  the  freshness  and  beauty  of 
early  youth  and  contrasting  so  strongly  with  their  old- 
fashioned  surroundings.  That  was  all,  but  the  picture 
stirred  in  him  that  restless,  disquieting  longing  for  some 
thing  undefined,  for  a  logical  continuation  of  the  two  lives 
he  had  thus  glanced  upon,  which  belongs  to  persons  of 
unusual  imagination,  and  which,  sooner  or  later,  drives 
them  to  the  writing  of  books  as  to  the  only  possible  satis 
faction  of  an  intimate  and  essential  want. 

There  are  people  who,  when  they  hear  any  unusual 
story  of  real  life,  exclaim,  "  What  a  novel  that  would 
make!  "  They  are  not  the  people  who  write  good  fiction. 
Most  of  them  have  never  tried  it,  for,  if  they  had,  they 
would  know  that  novels  are  not  made  by  expanding  into 
a  volume  or  volumes  the  account  of  circumstances  which 
have  actually  occurred.  True  stories  very  rarely  have  a 
conclusion  at  all,  and  the  necessity  for  a  conclusion  is  the 
first  thing  felt  by  the  born  novelist.  He  dwells  upon  the 
memory  of  people  he  has  seen,  only  for  the  sake  of  imag 
ining  a  sequel  and  end  to  their  lives.  Before  he  has 
discovered  that  he  must  write  books  to  satisfy  himself, 
he  does  not  understand  the  meaning  of  the  moods  to 
which  he  is  subject.  He  is  in  a  room  full  of  people,  per 
haps,  and  listening  to  a  conversation.  Suddenly  a  word 
or  a  passing  face  arrests  his  attention.  He  loses  the 
thread  of  the  talk,  and  his  thoughts  fly  off  at  a  tangent 
with  intense  activity.  As  before  the  sight  of  a  drowning 
man,  the  panorama  of  a  life  is  unfolded  to  him  in  an  in 
stant,  full  of  minute  details,  all  distinct  and  clear.  His 
lips  move,  repeating  fragments  of  imaginary  conversa 
tions.  His  eyes  fix  themselves,  while  he  sees  in  his  brain 
sights  other  than  those  around  him.  His  heart  beats  fast, 
then  slowly,  in  a  strange  variety  of  emotions.  Then 
comes  the  awakening  voice  of  the  persecutor.  "  A  penny 


40  THE   THREE   FATES. 

for  your  thought-.  Mr.  Tompkins."  OT,  u  My  dear  'romp- 
kins,  it'  \ou  tin  not  care  to  listen  to  in.-."  etc.  Theyoun.:,' 
man  is  covered  with  contusion  and  apologises  for  liis 
absence  of  mind,  while  still  inwardly  attempt  HILT  to  h'x 
in  his  memory  tin-  fleeting  visions  of  which  he  has  just 
enjoyed  Mich  a  delicious  glimpse. 

Fortunately  lor  (icor^e  \\"o«.<l.  there  was  no  one  to  dis 
turb  his  meditation*  as  he  strode  alon.u  the  (pile!  street, 
ascended  tlie  iron  steps  and  mechanically  paid  his  fare 
before  passing  through  the  wicket  gate.  Nor  did  the 
vivid  i-ecollect  ion  of  Constance  and  (irace  Fearing  aban 
don  him  as  the  snake-like  train  came  putting  up  and 
Mopped  before  his  eyes;  .still  less,  when  he  had  taken  his 
seat,  and  was  being  earned  away  np-town  in  the  direc 
tion  i»l'  his  home. 

He  lived  with  his  lather  in  the  small  house  which  the 
latter  Mill  owned,  and  in  which,  by  dint  of  rigid  eeoiioin\ 
the  two  succeeded  in  leading  a  decently  comfortable  exist 
ence,  so  far  as  their  material  lives  were  concerned.  A 
more  complete  contraM  to  the  roidence  in  Washington 
Scjiiare.  where  <  M-nrLjr  had  just  been  spending  half  an  hour, 
could  hardly  be  imagined.  The  dwelling  of  the  Woods 
was  one  of  those  conventional  little  buildings  which 
abound  in  the  -jreat  American  cities,  having  a  front  of 

alX)llt     sixteen    feet,    beill^   tlll'ee   MoNeS    llixh.     and     having 

two  RMMBfl  on  ea«-h  ilo.ir.  one  looking  U].on  the  street  and 
•  MIC  upon  a  small  yard  at  the  back.  Within.  e\  eryt  hinur 
was  of  the  simplest  do.-ripi  ion.  There  was  no  at  tempt 
at  anything  in  the  nature  of  luxury  or  embellishment. 
The  well-swept  carpets  were  threadbare,  the  carefully- 
dusten  furniture  wa>  of  the  plainest  kind,  the  .smooth. 
tinted  walls  were  innocent  ot  deenrat  ii»n  and  unadorned 

With    picturo.        There    Wele    few   books  to  be  seen,    except 

in  (ieorjje's  own  room,  which  presented  a  contrast  to  the 
rest  of  the  house,  inasmuch  a>  there  reigned  in  it  that 
sort  of  disorder  which  seemed  the  most  n-al  order  in  the 
opinion  of  it>  occupant.  A  huur«'  deal  table  took  up  fulh 
a  quarter  of  the  available  s|,;,ce.  and  deal  shelves  lull  of 


THE   THREE   FATES.  41 

books  both  old  and  new  lined  the  walls,  indeed  almost 
everything  was  of  deal,  from  the  uncarpeted  floor  to  the 
chairs.  A  pile  of  new  volumes  in  bright  bindings  stood 
on  a  corner  of  the  table,  which  was  littered  with  printed 
papers,  sheets  of  manuscript,  galley  proofs,  and  cuttings 
from  newspapers.  A  well-worn  penholder  lay  across  a 
half-written  page,  and  the  red  cork  of  a  bottle  of  stylo- 
graphic  ink  projected  out  of  the  confusion. 

George  entered  this  sanctum,  and  before  doing  anything 
else  proceeded  to  divest  himself  of  the  clothes  he  wore,  put 
ting  on  rusty  garments  that  seemed  to  belong  to  different 
epochs.  Then  he  went  to  the  window  with  something  like 
a  sigh  of  relief.  The  view  was  not  inspiring,  but  the 
familiarity  of  it  doubtless  evoked  in  his  mind  trains  of 
thought  that  were  pleasant.  There  was  the  narrow  brick 
yard  with  its  Chinese  puzzle  of  crossing  and  recrossing 
clothes'  lines.  Then  a  brick  wall  beyond  which  he  could 
see  at  a  considerable  distance  the  second  and  third  rows 
of  windows  of  a  large  house.  Above,  a  row  of  French 
roofs  and  then  the  winter  sky,  red  with  the  last  rays  of 
the  sun.  George  did  not  remain  long  in  contemplation 
of  this  prospect;  a  glance  was  apparently  enough  to  re 
store  the  disturbed  balance  of  his  mind.  As  he  turned 
away  and  busied  himself  with  lighting  a  green  glass  ker 
osene  lamp,  the  vision  of  Constance  and  Grace  Fearing 
dissolved,  and  gave  place  to  more  practical  considerations. 
He  sat  down  and  laid  hold  of  the  uppermost  volume  from 
the  pile  of  new  books,  instinctively  feeling  for  his  paper- 
cutter  with  the  other  hand,  among  the  disorderly  litter 
beside  him. 

After  cutting  a  score  of  pages,  he  began  to  look  for  the 
editor's  letter.  The  volumes  had  been  sent  him  for 
review,  and  were  accompanied  by  the  usual  note,  stating 
with  appalling  cynicism  the  number  of  words  he  was 
expected  to  write  as  criticism  of  each  production. 

"About  a  hundred  words  a-piece,"  wrote  the  literary 
editor,  "and  please  return  the  books  with  the  notices  on 
Monday  at  twelve  o'clock,  at  the  latest." 


42  THE   THREE    FATK-. 

It  was  Thursday  to-day,  and  then-  were  six  volumes 
to  l>e  read,  di^oted.  and  written  about.  (Iror^e  made  a 
short  calculation.  He  must  do  two  each  day.  on  Fnda\. 
Saturday,  and  Sunday,  in  order  to  leave  himself  .Mon 
day  morning  M  a  margin  in  case  of  accident*.  Six 
hooks,  six  hundred  words,  or  ratlin-  mure  than  halt  a 
column  of  the  paper  tor  which  he  wrote.  That  meant 
five  dollars,  for  the  work  was  well  paid,  as  hein^  sup- 
pi-M'd  to  require  some  judgment  and  ta>te  on  the  part  of 
the  writer.  There  Avas  of  course  nothing  of  niuch  impor 
tance  in  the  heap  of  gaily-bound  printed  matter,  nothing 
to  justify  a  serious  article,  and  nothing  which  (leorge 
would  care  to  read  twice.  Nevertheless  the  exigencies 
of  the  book  trade  must  he  satisfied,  and  notices  must 
appear,  and  editors  must  find  persons  willing  and  able 
to  write  such  notices  at  prices  varying  from  fifty  cents 
to  a  dollar  a-piece.  Nor  was  there  any  difficulty  about 
this.  George  knew  that  the  pay  was  very  good  as  times 
went,  and  that  there  were  dozens  of  starving  old  maids 
and  hungry  boys  who  would  do  the  work  for  less,  and 
would  perhaps  do  it  as  well  as  he  could.  Nor  was  he 
inclined  to  quarrel  with  the  conditions  which  allowed 
him  so  short  a  time  for  the  accomplishment  of  such  a 
task.  He  had  worked  at  second  class  reviewing  for  some 
time,  and  was  l..n-  past  the  period  of  surprises.  On  the 
contrary,  he  looked  upon  the  hatch  of  publications  with 
eonsiderable  satisfaction.  The  regularity  with  which 
such  parcels  had  arrived  during  the  last  few  months  was 
a  p roof  that  lie  wa^  dcin-  well,  and  it  seemed  probable 
that  in  the  course  of  the  coming  year  he  mi^ht  he 
entrusted  with  more  important  w«>rk.  Once  or  twice 
already,  he  had  hem  instructed  to  write  a  column,  and 
those  were  white  days  in  his  recollections.  lie  felt  that 
with  a  permanent  eii^a^einent  to  produce  a  column  a 
week  he  should  he  doin.u'  very  well,  but  he  knew  lm\\ 
hard  that  was  to  obtain.  No  one  who  has  not  earned  his 
Im-ad  by  this  kind  of  labour  can  have  any  idea  of  the 
crowd  that  lianas  upon  the  «.ut>kirt>  of  professional 
journalism,  a  crowd  not,  seeking  t<>  enter  the  ranks  of 


THE   THREE   FATES.  43 

the  regular  newspaper  men,  but  hoping  to  pick  up  the 
crumbs  that  fall  from  the  table  which  appears  to  them 
so  abundantly  loaded.  To  be  a  professional  journalist 
in  America  a  man  must  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  begin  as 
a  reporter.  He  must  possess  other  qualifications  besides 
those  of  the  literary  man.  He  must  have  a  good  knowl 
edge  of  shorthand  writing  and  a  knack  for  the  popular 
style.  He  must  have  an  iron  constitution  and  untiring 
nerves.  He  must  be  able  to  sit  in  a  crowded  room  under 
the  glaring  gaslight  and  write  out  his  impressions  at  an 
hour  when  ordinary  people  are  in  bed  and  asleep.  He 
must  possess  that  brazen  assurance  which  sensitive  men 
of  taste  rarely  have,  for  he  will  be  called  upon  to  inter 
view  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  when  they  least 
expect  it  and  generally  when  they  least  like  it.  He 
must  have  a  keen  instinct  for  business  in  order  to  outwit 
and  outrun  his  competitors  in  the  pursuit  of  news.  Ever 
on  the  alert,  he  must  not  dwell  upon  the  recollections  of 
yesterday  lest  they  twine  themselves  into  the  reports 
of  to-day.  Altogether,  the  commencing  journalist  must 
be  a  remarkable  being,  and  most  remarkable  for  a  set 
of  qualities  which  are  not  only  useless  to  the  writer  of 
books,  but  which,  if  the  latter  possessed  them,  would 
notably  hinder  his  success.  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
amateur  journalism  possible  within  the  precincts  of  a 
great  newspaper's  offices,  whereas  the  outer  doors  are 
besieged  by  amateurs  of  every  known  and  unknown 
description. 

In  the  critical  and  literary  departments,  the  dilettante 
is  the  cruel  enemy  of  those  who  are  driven  to  write  for 
bread,  but  who  lack  either  the  taste,  the  qualifications, 
or  the  opportunities  which  might  give  them  a  seat 
within,  among  the  reporters'  desks!  Cruellest  of  all  in. 
the  eyes  of  the  poor  scribbler  is  the  well-to-do  man  of 
leisure  and  culture  who  is  personally  acquainted  with 
the  chief  editor,  and  writes  occasional  criticisms,  often 
the  most  important,  for  nothing.  Then  there  is  the 
young  woman  who  has  been  to  college,  who  lacks  noth 
ing,  but  is  ever  ready  to  write  for  money,  which  she 


44  TMK    THKKK    FATES. 

devotes   t«»  eharitable  purpos.  s.  thereby  depriving  some 

unfortunate  youth  of  the  dollar  a  day  which  HUMUS  food 

to  him.  for  whose  support  the  public  i>  not  already  ta.\<-<l. 

But  she  knows  nothing  about  him,  and  it  amuses  her  t<> 

he  connected  with  the  press,  and  t«»  have  the  importance 
•  •I  exchanging  a  word  with  the  editor  it  she  HUM-IS  him 
in  the  society  she  frrqiirnts.  The  Young  man  goes  on 
the  accustomed  day  lor  tin-  new  hooks.  ••  I  have  nothing 
for  you  this  week.  Mr.  Tompkins."  says  tin-  manager  of 
the  literary  department  as  politely  as  possible.  The 
hooks  are  ir(,IH.  to  the  Ya»ar  L,'irl  or  to  the  rieh  idler, 
and  ]>oor  Tompkins  must  not  hope  to  earn  his  daily  dollar 
again  till  M-\en  or  right  days  have  pa»ed.  Hi>  only 
i-nnsolatinn  is  that  the  dawdling  dilettante  can  never  get 
all  the  work.  l»eeau>e  he  or  she  cannot  write  last  enough 
to  supply  the  demand.  Witlunit  the  >pur  of  necessity 
it  is  imposMltlr  to  read  and  review  two  volumes  a  day 
for  any  length  of  time.  It  i>  hard  to  comhine  justice  to 
an  author  with  the  necessity  tor  rushing  through  his  lto<>k 
at  a  hundred  pages  an  hour.  It  is  indeed  important  t«« 
cut  every  Iraf.  lot  the  aforesaid  literary  manager  should 
accuse  poor  littlr  Mr.  Tompkins  of  carelessness  and 
Mipertiriality  in  his  judgment :  luit  it  is  <[iiite  impossible 
that  Tompkins  >lu»uld  read  every  word  of  the  children's 
Ntory-lM.nk.  of  the  volumr  «»1  s<M-oud  <da>s  sermons,  of  the 
collection  of  tilth  rate  poetry,  and  of  the  harrowing  tale 

of  city  lite,  entitled  Ti>  Bucket  of  Blood,  w  Ti<-  \Y«*IHT- 

WOman'l  l!<  >'•  »'./'.  all  of  which  have  come  at  once  and  are 

simultaneously  >ul»mittrd  to  hi.s  authoritative  criticism. 

( ;,•<>!••_:'•  \\"ood  cut  tlii-tnigfi  thirty  pagr>  o|  the  voliinu- 
he  held  in  his  hand,  then  went  to  the  end  and  cut  back 
wards,  thru  returned  to  the  place  he  had  reached  the 
first  time,  and  cut  through  the  middle  of  the  hook.  It 
wa>  his  invariable  >\>tem.  and  he  found  that  it  succeeded 
\ny  well. 

••  It  U  not  well  done."  he  >aid  to  himself,  «pioting 
Johnson,  "but  one  is  .surprised  to  see  it  done  at  all. 
What  can  you  expect  tor  fifty 


THE   THREE   FATES.  45 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Many  days  passed  before  George  thought  of  renewing 
his  visit  to  Washington  Square,  and  during  that  time  he- 
was  not  even  tempted  to  go  and  see  Mrs.  Trimm.  If  the 
truth  were  to  be  told  it  might  appear  that  the  vision  of 
the  two  young  girls,  which  had  kept  George  in  company 
as  he  returned  to  his  home,  did  not  present  itself  again 
for  a  long  time  with  any  especial  vividness.  Possibly 
the  surroundings  and  occupations  in  the  midst  of  which 
he  lived  were  not  of  a  nature  to  stir  his  memories  easily; 
possibly,  too,  and  more  probably,  the  first  impression 
had  lacked  strength  to  fascinate  his  imagination  for  more 
than  half  an  hour.  The  habit  of  reading  a  book,  writ 
ing  twenty  lines  of  print  about  it  and  throwing  it  aside, 
never  to  be  taken  up  again,  may  have  its  consequences 
in  daily  life.  Though  quite  unconscious  of  taking  such 
a  superficial  view  of  so  serious  a  matter,  George's  mind 
treated  the  Misses  Fearing  very  much  as  it  would  have 
treated  a  book  that  had  been  sent  in  for  notice,  dealt 
with  and  seen  no  more.  Now  and  then,  when  he  was 
not  at  work,  and  was  even  less  interested  than  usual  in 
his  father's  snatches  of  conversation,  he  was  conscious 
of  remembering  his  introduction  to  the  two  young  ladies, 
and  strange  to  say  there  was  something  humorous  in  the 
recollection.  Totty's  business-like  mode  of  procedure 
amused  him,  and  what  seemed  to  him  her  absurd  assump 
tion  of  a  wild  improbability.  The  ludicrous  idea  of  the 
whole  affair  entertained  his  fancy  for  a  few  seconds 
before  it  slipped  away  again.  He  could  not  tell  exactly 
where  the  source  of  his  mirth  was  situated  in  the  chain 
of  ideas,  but  he  almost  smiled  at  the  thought  of  the 
enormous,  stiff  easy-chairs,  and  of  the  bookcase  in  the 
corner,  loaded  to  the  highest  shelf  with  histories  bound 
in  tree  calf  and  gold.  He  remembered,  too,  the  look  of 
disappointment  in  Totty's  eyes  when  he  had  alluded  to 


46  THE    THIir.K    FATES. 

tin-    reSpectabllit}     <>1    the    furniture,    ;is   they    walked    up 
l-'ittli     \\enue. 

Those  thought s  (lid  not  altogether  vanish  without  su.ur- 
-estin^  to  (Jeor-e's  inner  si^lit  tin-  outlines  of  the  girls' 
faces,  and  at  the  .saint-  time  he  had  a  taint  memory  of 
the  smmds  of  their  701068.  It  wonhl  not  displease  him 
to  see  ami  licar  both  a^ain.  but.  on  the  otlier  hand,  a 
visit  in  the  afternoon  was  an  undertaking  of  some  impor- 

taliee.     ;i     tact    which    cannot    !M'    realised    iiy     people     who 

have  spent  their  lives  in  society,  and  who  -<>  to  Bee  each 
other  as  a  natural  pastime,  jnst  as  the  Military  man  takes 
up  a  hook,  or  as  the  sailor  who  has  nothing  to  do  knots 
and  splices  odds  and  ends  of  rope.  It  is  not  only  that 
the  material  preparations  are  irksome,  and  that  it  is 
a  distinctly  troublesome  affair  for  the  youn^  litcran 
drudge  to  make,  himself  outwardly  presentable:  there  is 
also  the  tiresome  necessity  of  smoothing  ont  the  \\ear\ 
brain  so  that  it  may  be  capable  of  appreciating  a  set  <>t 
Unfamiliar  impressions  in  which  it  anticipates  norelaxa 
tiou.  Add  to  all  this  the  leaven  of  shyness  which  so 
often  belongs  to  younjj  and  sensitive  natures,  and  the 
slight  exertion  n»M-essary  in  such  a  ease  swells  and  rises 
till  it  seems  to  be  an  insurmountable  barrier. 

A  day  came,  however,  when  (leor^e  had  nothing  to  do. 
It  would  be  more  accurate  to  say  that  on  a  particular 
afternoon,  having  finished  one  piece  of  work  to  his  satis 
faction,  he  did  not  feel  inclined  to  be^in  another;  Im. 
amoni,'  the  many  consequences  of  entering  upon  a  liter 
ary  life  is  the  losing  for  ever  of  the  feeling  that  at  am 
moment  there  is  nothing  t«>  be  done.  Let  a  writer  work 
until  his  brain  reels  and  his  tinkers  can  no  longer  hold 

the    pell,    he    will     nevertheless    tilld     it     impossible    t«>     I'est 

without  ima.u'inin-  that  he  is  bein^  idle.  He  cannot 
pt  tmm  the  devil  that  drives  him.  because  he  is 
himself  the  driver  and  the  driven,  the  tiend  and  his 
victim,  the  torturer  and  the  tortured.  Let  physicians 
rail  at  the  horrible  consequences  of  drink.  ..|  excessive 
smoking,  of  opium.  o|  chloral,  and  of  morphine  —  the 


THE   THREE   FATES.  47 

most  terrible  of  all  stimulants  is  ink,  the  hardest  of 
taskmasters,  the  most  fascinating  of  enchanters,  the 
breeder  of  the  sweetest  dreams  and  of  the  most  appalling 
nightmares,  the  most  insinuating  of  poisons,  the  surest 
of  destroyers.  One  may  truly  venture  to  say  that  of  an 
equal  number  of  opium-eaters  and  professional  writers, 
the  opium-eaters  have  the  best  of  it  in  the  matter  of  long- 
life,  health,  and  peace  of  mind.  We  all  hear  of  the 
miserable  end  of  the  poor  wretch  who  has  subsisted  for 
years  upon  stimulants  or  narcotics,  and  whose  death, 
often  at  an  advanced  age,  is  held  up  as  a  warning  to 
youth;  but  who  ever  knows  or  speaks  of  the  countless 
deaths  due  solely  to  the  overuse  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper? 
Who  catalogues  the  names  of  those  many  ivhose  brains 
give  way  before  their  bodies  are  worn  out?  Who  counts 
the  suicides  brought  about  by  failure,  the  cases  of  men 
starving  because  they  would  rather  Avrite  bad  English 
than  do  good  work  of  any  other  sort?  In  proportion  to 
the  whole  literary  profession  of  the  modern  world  the 
deaths  alone,  without  counting  other  accidents,  are  more 
numerous  than  those  caused  by  alcohol  among  drinkers, 
by  nicotine  among  smokers,  and  by  morphine  and  like 
drugs  among  those  who  use  them.  For  one  man  who 
succeeds  in  literature,  a  thousand  fail,  and  a  hundred, 
who  have  looked  upon  the  ink  when  it  was  black  and 
cannot  be  warned  from  it,  and  whose  nostrils  have 
smelled  the  printer's  sacrifice,  are  ruined  for  all  useful 
ness  and  go  drifting  and  struggling  down  the  stream  of 
failure  till  death  or  madness  puts  an  end  to  their 
sufferings.  And  yet  no  one  ventures  to  call  writing  a 
destroying  vice,  nor  to  condemn  poor  scribblers  as  "  ink- 
drunkards. 

George  walked  the  whole  distance  from  his  house  to 
Washington  Square.  He  had  not  been  in  that  part  of 
the  city  since  he  had  come  with  his  cousin  to  make  his 
first  visit,  but  as  he  drew  near  to  his  destination  he 
began  to  regret  that  he  had  allowed  more  than  a  fort 
night  to  pass  without  making  any  attempt  to  see  his  new 


48  THE    THl:i  I      I  A  I  I  - 

acquaintances.  (Mi  reaching  the  house  In-  found  that 
Conftaaoe  Fraring  was  at  liome.  He  was  sorry  not  to 
see  the  younger  sister,  with  whom  In-  had  found  conver 
sation  more  easy  and  sympathetic.  (Mi  the  other  liand. 
tin-  atmosphere  <>f  the  house  seemed  less  stiff  and  formal 
than  on  the  first  occasion  ;  tin*  disposition  of  the  heavy 
furniture  liad  been  changed,  there  were  flowers  in  the 
old-fashioned  vases,  and  there,  were  niorc  hooks  and  small 
objects  scattered  upon  tlm  tables. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  were  never  coining  again  !  "  exclaimed 
the  young  girl,  holding  out  her  hand. 

There  was  something  simple  and  frank  about  her 
manner  which  put.  <ieorge  at  his  ease. 

••  Vou  are  very  kind,"  he  answered,  "  1  was  afraid  that 
even  to-day  might  be  too  soon.  But  Sherry  Trimm  MJB 
that  when  he  is  in  doubt  he  plays  trumps  —  and  so  I 
came." 

"  Not  at  all  too  soon."  suggested  ('.instance. 

"The  calculation  is  very  simple.  A  visit  once  a  fort 
night  would  make  twenty-six  visits  a  year  with  a  fraction 
more  in  leap  year,  would  it  not '.'  1  )o»-s  not  that  appal  you'.'" 

"I  have  not  a  mathematical  mind,  and  1  do  not  look 
so  far  ahead.  Uesides,  if  we  are  away  for  six  months  in 
the  summer,  you  would  not  make  so  many." 

"  I  forgot  that  everybody  dn.-s  not  .stay  in  town  the 
whole  year.  I  suppose  yon  will  go  abroad  again'.'" 

"Not  this  year,"  answered  Miss  Fearing  rather  sadly. 

George  glanced  at  her  face  and  then  looked  quickly 
away.  He  understood  her  tone,  and  it  >eeiued  natural 
enough  that  the  fresh  recollection  of  her  mother's  death 
should  for  some  time  prevent  both  the  sisters  from 
returning  to  Furope.  He  could  not  help  wondering  how 
much  real  sorrow  lay  behind  the  young  girl's  sadiie^. 
though  he  was  somewhat  astonished  to  tind  himself 
engaged  in  Mich  an  odd  p>yehological  calculation.  He 
did  not  readily  believe  evil  of  any  one.  and  yet  lie  found 
it  hard  to  believe  much  absolute  good.  Possibly  he  may 
have  inherited  something  of  this  ontnutfullMM  I'mm  his 


THE   THKEE    FATES.  49 

father,  and  there  was  a  side  in  his  own  character  which 
abhorred  it.  For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence 
between  the  two.  George  sitting  in  his  upright  chair 
and  bending  forward,  gazing  stupidly  at  his  own  hands 
clasped  upon  his  knee,  while  Constance  Fearing  leaned 
far  back  in  her  deep  easy-chair  watching  his  dark  profile 
against  the  bright  light  of  the  window. 

"Do  you  like  people,  Miss  Fearing?"  George  asked 
rather  suddenly. 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  mean,  is  your  first  impulse,  about  people  you  meet 
for  the  first  time,  to  trust  them,  or  not?" 

"That  is  not  an  easy  question  to  answer,  i  do  not 
think  I  have  thought  much  about  it.  What  is  your  own 
impulse?" 

"  You  are  distrustful, "  said  George  in  a  tone  of  con 
viction. 

"Why?" 

"Because  you  answer  a  question  by  a  question." 

"Is  that  a  sign?  How  careful  one  should  be!  Xo  — 
I  will  try  to  answer  fairly.  I  think  I  am  unprejudiced, 
but  I  like  to  look  at  people's  faces  before  I  make  up  my 
mind  about  them." 

"  And  when  you  have  decided,  do  you  change  easily  ? 
Have  you  not  a  decided  first  impression  to  which  you 
come  back  in  spite  of  your  judgment,  and  in  spite  of 
yourself?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  fancy  not.  I  think  I  would  rather 
not  have  anything  of  the  kind.  'Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  Out  of  curiosity.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  being  curious. 
Have  you  ever  tried  to  think  what  the  world  would  be 
like  if  nobody  asked  questions?" 

"It  would  be  a  very  quiet  place." 

"  We  should  all  be  asleep.  Curiosity  is  only  the  wak 
ing  state  of  the  mind.  We  are  all  asking  questions,  all 
the  time,  either  of  ourselves,  of  our  friends,  or  of  our 
books.  Xine-tenths  of  them  are  never  answered,  but 
that  does  not  prevent  us  from  asking  more." 

E 


I  III.     I  IIKKK    K.\  n.S. 

"Or  from  repeating  tin-  saint-  ones —  to  <>ur-el\  ••-. " 
siid  <  'distance. 

%>  YQ&]     1  In-    inoM    ilitcrot  lllur  ('Mrs." 

'•  What   is  ino.xt   interotinu'.'  " 

'Always  that  which  we  hope  tin-  most  and  tin-  least 
BOl  t.»  have."  <;»'nr-.-  aiisurred.  ••  \\"«-  an-  talking 
psM-holo^v  ci-  x,. nit-tiling  very  likt-  it."  lit-  a«l<lr<|  with  a 
ih-y  laugh. 

"  Is  there  any  reason  why  we  should  not?"  asked  lii> 
'•••iiipaiiinn.  "\Vliy  do  you  lau^h,  Mr.  \\'ood'.'  Vnur 
laui^h  <lot->  n.it  xMind  MTV  ht-art-t't-lt  citht-r."  Slic  tixt-d 
IKT  ch-ar  liliu-  ey«8  on  him  f«»r  a  nionu'iit. 

"Out-  i-art-ly  dors  \\t-ll  what  on«-  has  not  prurtisrtl 
IMT'OIV  an  audiriirt-."  h«-  ansunvd.  "As  you  suggest, 
thi-iv  is  mi  ivast.n  why  \vc  slmuld  not  talk  |»\ chology  — 

if  we  know  enoogb  al>out  it  —  that  IB  tosay^  it'  M»U  do. 
tor  T  am  sure  I  do  not.  There  is  n«>  sul>jt-<-t  on  which  it 
is  so  easy  to  make  smart  remark-." 

"Excepting  our  n.-i^hbour."  oKscnvd  ( 'onstaiict-. 

"I  have  no  n«'i-hl>ours.  \\'ho  is  mv  neighbour'.' " 
a>k»-d  (Jt-nr-v  rather  vicioii>l\. 

'•  I  think  thci't-  is  a  luhlical  answer  to  that  •pi.-st  ion." 

"l»nt  I  do  not  live  in  biblical  times ;  and  I  siippt»sr 
my  scratches  are  t<>«>  in.vi-iiiticant  to  attract  the  attention 
"1  any  |.a»in--  Samaritan." 

"  Terhaps  \  011  ha\'e  none  at  all." 

••  IVrhaps  not.  I  supposr  our  neighbours  are  'them 
that  we  h.ve  that  love  n-.'  v(l  the  old  tna-t  MT8,  An- 
they  not'.'" 

•'   \nd    tho.-e    whom    we   nuijht    to    love.     I    taiicy."    sug- 

gested  <  'on-tanrr. 

"liut  we  t,ii-ht  to  l,,Vi-  our  eiiemir>.  What  a  neigh- 
Kourly  world  it  is.  and  how  I'nll  of  love  it  >honld  he!" 

'•  l-'ortunatrly,   love  is  a  va.^ne  word." 

'•  Have  you  never  tried  to  define  if.'"  asked  the  young 
man. 

"  I  am  not  clevereiK.u^h  for  that.  lYi  haps  you  could." 
looked  quickly  at  the  VOIIULC  urirl.  lie  was  not 


THE   THREE    FATES.  51 

prepared  to  believe  that  she  made  the  suggestion  out  of 
coquetry,  but  he  was  not  old  enough  to  understand  that 
such  a  remark  might  have  escaped  from  her  lips  without 
the  slightest  intention. 

"  I  rather  think  that  definition  ends  when  love  begins, " 
he  said,  after  a  moment's  pause.  "All  love  is  experi 
mental,  and  definition  is  generally  the  result  of  many 
experiments." 

''Experimental?" 

"  Yes.  Do  you  not  know  many  cases  in  which  people 
have  tried  the  experiment  and  have  failed?  It  is  no 
less  an  experiment  if  it  happens  to  succeed.  Affection 
is  a  matter  of  fact,  but  love  is  a  matter  of  speculation." 

"  I  should  not  think  that  experimental  love  would  be 
worth  much,"  said  Constance,  with  a  shade  of  embar 
rassment.  A  very  faint  colour  rose  in  her  cheeks  as  she 
spoke. 

"  One  should  have  tried  it  before  one  should  judge.  Or 
else,  one  should  begin  at  the  other  extremity  and  work 
backwards  from  hate  to  love,  through  the  circle  of  one's 
acquaintances." 

"Why  are  you  always  alluding  to  hating  people?" 
asked  the  young  girl,  turning  her  eyes  upon  him  with  a 
look  of  gentle,  surprised  protest.  "Is  it  for  the  sake  of 
seeming  cynical,  or  for  the  sake  of  making  paradoxes? 
It  is  not  really  possible  that  you  should  hate  every  one, 
you  know." 

"With  a  few  brilliant  exceptions,  you  are  quite  right," 
George  answered.  "But  I  was  hoping  to  discover  that 
you  hated  some  one,  for  the  sake  of  observing  your 
symptoms.  You  look  so  very  good." 

It  would  have  been  hard  to  say  that  the  expression  of 
his  face  had  changed,  but  as  he  made  the  last  remark 
the  lines  that  naturally  gave  his  mouth  a  scornful  look 
were  unusually  apparent.  The  colour  appeared  again  in 
Constance's  clieeks,  a  little  brighter  than  before,  and 
her  eyes  glistened  as  she  looked  away  from  her  visitor. 

"  I  think  you  might  find  that  appearances  are  decep 
tive,  if  you  go  on,"  she  said. 


5*2  TIII-.  i  oan  i  A  n.  >. 

"Should  I  '.'  ':  asked  George  .piietly.  his  features  relax 
ing  in  a  singularly  att  ract  i\  e  smile  which  was  rarely 
seeil  upon  his  face.  !!«•  wa>  coiiscimis  of  a  thrill  of 
intense  satisfaction  at  the  manifestation  of  the  young 
girl'*  BenBitiven668,  a  .satisfaction  which  he  could  not 
then  explain,  hut  which  was  in  reality  highly  artistic. 
The  sensatinn  could  niih  he  compared  to  that  produced 
in  an  appreciative  ear  \>\  a  new  and  perfectly  harmoniou^ 
modulation  sounded  upon  a  very  heautiful  instrument. 

"I  wonder,"  he  resumed  presently,  "what  form  the 
opposite  of  goodness  would  take  in  you.  Are  you  ever 
very  angry'/  Perhaps  it  is  rude  to  a>k  such  question^. 

Is    fc?» 

"I  do  not  know.      No  one  was  ever  rude  to  me,"  Con 
stance  answered  calmly.      "lint    I     have    heen    angr\ 
since  you  ask  —  I  often  am,  ahout  little  things." 

"  And  are  you  very  tierce  and  terrihle  on  those  occa 
sions?  " 

"Very  terrihle  indeed."  laughed  the  young  girl.  "I 
should  frighten  you  it'  you  were  to  see  me." 

"lean  well  believe  that.     lam  of  a  timid  disposit  inn." 

"Are  you?  You  do  not  look  like  it.  1  shall  a>k  .Mr-. 
Trimm  if  it  is  true.  By-the-bye,  have  \ou  seen  her  to 
day'.'" 

•  Not  since  we  were  here  together." 

"I  thought  you  saw  her  \d\  often.  I  had  a  note  from 
her  yesterday.  1  suppose  you  know'.'" 

"  1  know  nothing.      What  is  if.'  " 

••old  Mr.Craik  is  very  ill  —  dying,  they  >a\.  She 
wrote  to  tell  me  so.  explaining  \vhv  she  had  not  heen 


ejea  suddridy  gleamed  with  a  disagreeable 
light.  Tli.-  news  was  as  unexpected  as  it  \\;t>  ii-iv.-ahle. 
Not.  indeed,  that  (ieorgi-  could  e\cr  hope  to  profit  in  any 
way  liy  the  «.ld  man's  death:  for  In-  wa>  natiirall\  BO 
geiiemu.s  that,  if  such  a  prosj»ect  had  existed,  he  would 
have  heen  the  laM  to  rejoice  in  its  realisation.  He  hat.-,  I 

Thomas  Craik  with  an  honest  and  disintcrc.sted  hatred. 


THE   THKEE    FATES.  53 

and  the  idea  the  world  was  to  be  rid  of  him  at  last  was 
inexpressibly  delightful. 

"He  is  dying,  is  he?"  he  asked  in  a  constrained  voice. 

"  You  seem  glad  to  hear  it, "  said  Constance,  looking  at 
him  with  some  curiosity. 

"I?  Yes  —  well,  I  am  not  exactly  sorry!  "  His  laugh 
was  harsh  and  unreal.  "  You  could  hardly  expect  me  to 
shed  tears  —  that  is,  if  you  know  anything  of  my  father's 
misfortunes." 

"  Yes,  I  have  heard  something.  But  I  am  sorry  that  I 
was  the  person  to  give  you  the  news." 

"  Why?     I  am  grateful  to  you." 

"I  know  you  are,  and  that  is  precisely  what  I  do  not 
like.  I  do  not  expect  you  to  be  grieved,  but  I  do  not  like 
to  see  one  man  so  elated  over  the  news  of  another  man's 
danger. " 

"Why  not  say,  his  death!  "  exclaimed  George. 

Constance  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  looked 
at  him  as  she  spoke. 

"I  hardly  know  you,  Mr.  Wood.  This  is  only  the 
second  time  I  have  seen  you,  and  I  have  no  right  to  make 
remarks  about  your  character.  But  I  cannot  help  think 
ing  —  that  — 

She  hesitated,  not  as  though  from  any  embarrassment, 
but  as  if  she  could  not  find  the  words  she  wanted.  George 
made  no  attempt  to  help  her,  though  he  knew  perfectly 
well  what  she  wanted  to  say.  He  waited  coldly  to  see 
whether  she  could  complete  her  sentence. 

"You  ought  not  to  think  such  things,"  she  said  sud 
denly,  "and  if  you  do,  you  ought  not  to  show  it." 

"  In  other  words,  you  wish  me  to  reform  either  my 
character  or  my  manners,  or  both?  Do  you  know  that  old 
Tom  Craik  ruined  my  father?  Do  you  know  that  after 
he  had  done  that,  he  let  my  father's  reputation  suffer, 
though  my  father  was  as  honest  as  the  daylight,  and  he 
himself  was  the  thief?  That  sounds  very  dramatic  and 
theatrical,  does  it  not?  It  is  all  very  true  nevertheless. 
And  yet,  you  expect  me  to  be  such  a  clever  actor  as  not 


.">4  INK   TMI.I.I:    I   \  i'ES. 

to  Show  my  Satisfaction    at    \niir   news.       All    I    can    sa\. 
Miss   l-Varing.   istliat   vmi  expect    a   great    deal   of   liuiiiaii 
iiaturc.  and    that   I  am  very  sorry  to  In-  the  particular  in 
dividual  \vlm  i-  fated  t<.  disappoint  your  expeetat  ions." 

•MM    eourse   you    feel    st mildly    about  it —  I    did   not 
know   all   you   have    just     t<dd    me,   or    I    would   not    have 
spoken.      I  wish  every  «MI«-  c..uld  forgive  —  it  is  so  right 
to  forgive." 

"Yes —  undoubtedly,"  assented  iiror^r.     ••  pM-^in  bv 

forgiving  me,  ph-asc.  and  then  tell  me  what   is  the  matter 
with  the  worthy  Mr.  <'raik." 

"Mrs.  Trimm  seems  to  think  it   is  nei\mis    prostration 

-  what   everybody  ha>  nowada\-." 

•'  Is  >he  very  much  cut  up'.'"  QeOTgQ  a-ked  with  an  air 
nt'  eoncern. 

"She  \\rite>  that  sin-  d<»e>  not  lea\<-  him." 

"Nor  will  —  until  -  (ieor-v  stopped  short. 

"  What  were  you  goiiitf  to  say'.'  " 

"I  was  goin^  to  make  a  remark  about  the  human  will 
in  general  ami  alxmt  the  wills  of  dying  men  in  particular. 
It  was  very  ill-natured,  and  in  direct  emit  radiction  to  \  our 
order-.' 

"I  suppo.se  she  will  have  all  his  fortune  in  any  case," 
Observed  <  kmatanoe,  repressing  a  smile,  as  tln.ugh  she  tell 
that  it  would  n«»t  suit  the  tone  she  had  taken  before. 

•  ^ince  you  make  s«,  woj'ldly  an  impiiry,  I  presume  ue 
may  take  it  tor  -ranted  that  the  mantle  of  Mr.  Craik'- 
tilthy  lucre  will  desc(-n<l  upon  the  unwilling  shoulders 

ot  Mi>.  Bherrington Trimm.     To  be  plain.  Totty  will  get 

the    dollar-.       \\"ell  -     I    wish    her    joy.      She    is    not  ac- 

ipiuintcd  \\ith  po\frt\.  as  it   is.   imr  was  destitution    BV0I 

her  familiar  friend." 

"AVhy  do  \ou  affect  that   bililical  sort  «»i   language'.'" 
••  It  seems  t«»  me  mole  forcible  than  swearing.       lies  ides, 

Mm  would  not  let   me  swear.    I  am  sun-,  even  it   I   wanted 

to." 

••  <  't-rtainly  not  — 

"  Very  well,  then  you  must    iorm\c    the    imperlVetnms 


THE   THREE   FATES.  55 

of  my  style  in  consideration  of  my  not  doing  very  much 
worse.  I  think  I  will  go  and  ask  how  Mr.  Craik  is  doing 
to-day.  "Would  not  that  show  a  proper  spirit  of  charity 
and  forgiveness?" 

"I  hope  you  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort!"  exclaimed 
Constance  hastily. 

"  Would  it  not  be,  a  proof  that  I  had  profited  by  your 
instruction?  " 

"I  think  it  would  be  very  hypocritical,  and  not  at  all 
nice." 

"Do  you?  It  seems  to  me  that  it  would  only  look 
civil " 

"From  what  you  told  me,  civility  can  hardly  be  ex 
pected  from  you  in  this  case." 

"I  am  not  obliged  to  tell  the  servant  at  the  door  the 
motive  of  my  curiosity  when  I  inquire  after  the  health 
of  a  dying  relation.  That  would  be  asking  too  much." 

"You  can  inquire  just  as  well  at  Mrs.  Trimm's  — 

"Mr.  Craik's  house  is  011  my  way  home  from  here  — 
Totty's  is  not  on  the  direct  line." 

"I  hope  you  —  how  absurd  of  me,  though!  It  is  no 
business  of  mine." 

George  could  not  say  anything  in  reply  to  this  state 
ment,  but  an  expression  of  amusement  came  over  his 
Face,  which  did  not  escape  his  companion.  Constance 
laughed  a  little  nervously. 

"You  are  obliged  to  admit  that  it  is  none  of  my  busi 
ness,  you  see,"  she  said. 

"I  am  in  the  position  of  a  man  who  cannot  assent 
without  being  rude,  nor  differ  without  impugning  the 
known  truth." 

"That  was  very  well  done,  Mr.  Wood."  said  ( 'onstance. 
"I  have  nothing  more  to  say." 

"To  me?  Then  I  herewith  most  humbly  take  my 
leave."  George  rose  from  his  seat. 

"  I  did  not  mean  that !  "  exclaimed  the  young  girl  with 
a  smile.  "Do  not  go  — 

"It  is  growing  late,  and  Mr.  Craik  may  be  gathered  to 


56  THE   THREE    FATES. 

his  fathers  before  I  run  rin<_:  at  his  door  and  ask  how  he 
is." 

"Oli,  please  do  not  talk  any  more  about  that  poor 
man  '.  " 

"If  I  May  h.-rr  I  shall.  May  I  come  again  sonic  day, 
Miss  Fearing'.'  Yon  hear  me  no  malice  for  being  afflicted 
witli  so  nnieli  original  sin'.'  " 

"Its  originality  almost  makes  it  pardonable.  C<.me 
whenever  you  please.  \\'e  shall  always  he  glad  t"  M6 
you.  and  I  hoj>e  that  my  sister  will  lie  here  the  next 
time." 

George  vaguely  hoj.ed  that  she  would  not  as  lie  bowed 
and  left  the  room.  He  had  enjoyed  the  visit  far  more 
than  Constance  had.  for  whereas  his  eonvei-sat  ion  had 
somewhat  disquieted  her  sensitive  feeling  of  fitness,  hers 
had  afforded  him  a  BeHefl  of  novel  and  delightful  sensa- 
ti(»iis.  He  was  Conscious  of  a  new  inteiv>t.  of  a  new 
train  of  thought,  and  es|.e<-ially  of  an  odd  and  inexp lie- 
able  sense  of  physical  comfort  that  seemed  to  proeeed 
from  the  region  of  the  heart,  as  though  his  body  had 
been  cheered,  his  blood  wariiH'd.  and  his  circulation 
stimulated  by  the  assimilation  of  ninny  good  things.  As 
he  walked  up  the  Avenue,  he  did  not  ask  himself 

whether  he  had  produced  a  ur 1  »»r  a  bad  impression 

upon  Miss  Fearing,  nor  whether  he  had  talked  well  or 
ill.  Mill  le>s  whether  the  young  girl  had  liked  him. 
though  it  is  probable  that  if  he  had  put  any  of  these 
questions  to  his  inner  consciousness  that  complacent 
witness  would,  in  his  present  mood,  have  answered  all 
his  inquiries  in  the  way  most  .satisfactory  to  his  vanit\. 
For  some  reason  or  other  he  was  not  curious  to  know 
what  liis  inner  consciousness  thought  of  the  matter.  For 
the  moment,  sensation  was  enough,  and  he  \\  as  surprised 
to  discover  that  sensation  could  \te  so  agreeable.  Hi- 
knew  that  he  was  holding  his  head  higher  than  usual, 
that  his  •rhinee  was  more  confident  than  it  was  wont  to 
be.  and  his  step  more  elastic,  but  he  did  not  connect  anv 
of  these  phenomena  in  a  direct  way  with  his  visit  in 


THE   THREE   FATES.  57 

Washington  Square.  Perhaps  there  was  a  vague  notion 
afloat  in  his  brain  to  the  effect  that  if  he  once  allowed 
the  connection  he  should  be  forced  into  calling  himself 
a  fool,  and  that  it  was  consequently  far  wiser  to  enjoy 
the  state  in  which  he  found  himself  than  to  inquire  too 
closely  into  its  immediate  or  remote  causes. 

It  is  also  probable  that  if  George  Wood's  condition  of 
general  satisfaction  on  that  evening  had  been  more 
clearly  dependent  upon  his  recollection  of  the  young 
lady  he  had  just  left,  he  would  have  felt  an  impulse  to 
please  her  by  doing  as  she  wished;  in  other  words,  he 
would  have  gone  home  or  would  have  passed  by  Totty's 
house  to  make  inquiries,  instead  of  executing  his  purpose 
of  ringing  at  Mr.  Craik's  door.  But  there  was  something 
contradictory  in  his  nature,  which  drove  him  to  do  the 
very  things  which  most  men  would  have  left  undone; 
and  moreover  there  was  a  grain  of  grim  humour  in  the 
idea  of  asking  in  person  after  Tom  Craik's  health,  which 
made  the  plan  irresistibly  attractive.  He  imagined  his 
own  expression  when  he  should  tell  his  father  what  he 
had  done,  and  he  knew  the  old  gentleman  well  enough  to 
guess  that  the  satire  of  the  proceeding  would  inwardly 
please  him  in  spite  of  himself,  though  he  would  certainly 
look  grave  and  shake  his  head  when  he  heard  the  story. 

Constance  Fearing's  meditations,  when  she  was  left 
alone,  were  of  a  very  different  character.  She  stood  for 
a  long  time  at  the  window  looking  out  into  the  purple 
haze  that  hung  about  the  square,  and  then  she  turned 
and  went  and  sat  before  the  fire,  and  gazed  at  the  glowing 
coals.  George  Wood  could  not  but  have  felt  flattered 
had  lie  known  that  was  the  subject  of  her  thoughts  dur 
ing  the  greater  part  of  an  hour  after  his  departure,  and 
he  would  have  been  very  much  surprised  at  his  own 
ignorance  of  human  nature  had  he  guessed  that  her  mind 
was  disturbed  by  the  remembrance  of  her  own  conduct. 
He  would  assuredly  have  called  her  morbid  and  have 
doubted  the  sincerity  of  her  most  sacred  convictions,  and 
if  he  could  have  looked  into  her  mind,  that  part  of  his 


58  THK    THKKi:    FATKS. 

liistory  which   was  dest  im-d   to   he  connected    \vitli    hers 
\V(»ul<l   in  all   likelihood   have   remained    mienacteil.      Ib 

could   certainly   not  have    understood   her  m 1  at    that 

time,   and   tin-  attempt    to   do   so    would    have   tilled   him 
with  most  unreasonable  prejudices  against  her. 

To  the  young  girl  it  seemed  indeed  a  very  .serious 
matter  to  have  criticised  (ieorge'.s  conduct  and  to  ha\e 
tin-list  her  advice  upon  him.  It  was  the  first  time  she 
had  ever  done  such  a  thing  and  she  wondered  at  her  own 
boldness.  She  repeated  to  herself  that  it  was  none  of 
her  business  to  consider  what  (Jeorge  \Vood  did,  and 
still  less  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  his  thoughts,  and  vet 
she  was  glad  that  she  had  spoken  as  she  had.  She  knew 
very  little  about  men.  and  she  was  willing  to  believe 
they  might  all  think  alike.  At  all  events  this  particular 
man  had  very  good  cause  tor  resentment  against  Thomas 
Craik.  Nevertheless  there  was  something  in  his  evident 
delight  at  the  prospeet  of  the  old  man's  death  that  was 
revolting  to  her  finest  feelings.  Absolutely  ignorant  of 
the  world's  real  evil,  she  saw  her  own  path  beset  with 
imaginary  sins  of  the  most  varied  description,  to  avoid 
committing  which  needed  the  constant  wakefulness  of  a 
delicate  .sensibility:  and  as  she  knew  of  no  greater  or 
more  real  evils,  she  fancied  that  the  lives  of  others  must 
be  like  her  own  - —  a  labyrinth  of  transparent  cobwebs,  to 
brush  against  one  of  which,  even  inadvertent Iv.  was  but 
a  little  removed  from  crime  itself.  Her  education  had 
been  so  strongly  influenced  by  religion  and  her  natural 
sensitiveness  \\a>  so  great,  that  the  main  object  of  life 
presented  itself  to  her  as  the  necessity  fur  discovering 
an  absolute  right  or  wrong  in  the  most  minute  action. 
and  the  IcaM  relaxation  of  this  constant  watch  appeared 
to  her  to  be  indicative  of  moral  sloth.  The  fact  that, 
with  such  a  disposition  she  was  not  an  intolerable  nui 
sance  to  all  who  knew  her.  was  due  to  her  innate  tact  and 
good  taste,  and  in  some  measure  to  her  youth,  which 
lent  its  frohness  and  innocence  to  all  she  did  and 
thought  and  said.  At  the  present  time  her  conscience 


THE   THREE   FATES.  59 

seemed  to  be  more  than  usually  active  and  dissatisfied. 
She  assuredly  did  not  believe  that  it  was  her  mission  to 
reform  George  Wood,  or  to  decorate  his  somewhat  pecul 
iar  character  with  religious  arabesques  of  faith,  hope, 
and  charity;  but  it  is  equally  certain  that  she  felt  an 
unaccountable  interest  in  his  conduct,  and  a  degree  of 
curiosity  in.  his  actions  which,  considering  how  slightly 
she  knew  him,  was  little  short  of  amazing.  Had  she 
been  an  older  woman,  less  religious  and  more  aware  of 
her  own  instincts,  she  would  have  asked  herself  whether 
she  was  not  already  beginning  to  care  for  George  Wood 
himself  rather  than  for  the  blameless  rectitude  of  her 
own  moral  feelings.  But  Avith  her  the  refinements  of  a 
girlish  religiousness  had  so  far  got  the  upper  hand  of 
everything  else  that  she  attributed  her  uneasiness  to  the 
doubt  about  her  own  conduct  rather  than  to  a  secret  attrac 
tion  which  was  even  then  beginning  to  exercise  its  in 
fluence  over  her. 

It  was  to  be  foreseen  that  Constance  Fearing  would 
not  fall  in  love  easily,  even  under  the  most  favourable? 
circumstances.  The  most  innocent  love  in  the  world 
often  finds  a  barrier  in  the  species  of  religious  sentimen 
tality  by  which  she  was  at  that  time  dominated,  for 
morbid  scruples  have  power  to  kill  spontaneity  and  all 
that  is  spontaneous,  among  which  things  love  is  first,  or 
should  be.  Constance  was  not  like  her  sister  Grace,  who 
had  loved  John  Bond  ever  since  they  had  been  children, 
and  who  meant  to  marry  him  as  soon  as  possible.  Her 
colder  temperament  would  lose  time  in  calculating  for 
the  future  instead  of  allowing  her  to  be  happy  in  the 
present.  Deep  in  her  heart,  too,  there  lay  a  seed  of 
unhappiness,  in  the  habit  of  doubting  which  had  grown 
out  of  her  mistrust  of  her  own  motives.  She  was  very 
rich.  Should  a  poor  suitor  present  himself,  could  slu1 
help  fearing  lest  he  loved  her  money,  when  she  could 
hardly  find  faith  in  herself  for  the  integrity  of  her  own 
most  trivial  intentions?  She  never  thought  of  Grace 
without  admiring  her  absolute  trust  in  the  man  she 
loved, 


60  THF    THHKE    FATES. 


rilAl'TKK    V. 

Thomas  Craik  lay  ill  in  his  ^reat  house,  listening  for 
tin-  tailing  beatings  "I  hi-  In-art  as  tin-  last  ijlnw  of  thr 
Frbruan  afternoon  faded  <»ut  of  the  curtains  and  with 
drew  its  rich  colour  from  tin-  carved  ]»aiicls  on  the  walK 
Hr  lay  upon  his  pillows,  an  emaciated  old  man  with  a 
waxen  face  and  head,  sunken  eyefl  that  seemed  to  have 
no  siurht  in  them.  Short  locks  ot  yellowish  ur"'\  hair 
straxed  about  his  forehead  and  ti-mj»l«-s.  like  dry  «jra^e- 

>cattel'ed     o\er    a    skull.        There     \v;is    ll<>    U'ard     UjMill    his 

face,  and  tin-  hard  old  li^  \\cre  tightly  drawn  in  a  Bel 
expression,  a  little  apart,  so  that  the  Mark  shadow  ot 
the  o|.en  nnnith  wa>  visihle  hetween  them.  The  long, 
nervous  hands  lay  upon  the  counterpane  tn^.thi-r.  the 
lingers  of  thf  one  u\nm  tlir  \vri>t  <>i  the  other  teelinic  the 
sinking  poise,  searching  with  their  numbed  extremities 
tor  a  little  Hutter  nl  motion  in  the  dry  veins.  Tli<»ma> 
Craik  lay  motionle»  in  his  l><-d.  not  one  outward  si^n 
l'etra\inu  the  tremendou>  conHict  that  \va.s  taking  plarr 
in  his  still  active  l.rain.  He  was  himself  to  the  last. 
Mich  a>  he  had  always  Keen  in  the  ^reat  moments  of  his 
life.  appai'Mith  c<.ol  and  collected,  in  reality  tilled  with 
the  Mru'_iurl'-  "f  strung.  op|»o.sin^  paN.sions. 

He  \va>  not  alone.      Two   ^rreat    j»li\  siriaiis  were  stand 
ing     in     silence,      side     liy      side,      hetoj-e     the      liia^ll  i  tic-rilt 

chimne\ -pi.-ce.  liriu-atli  which  a  soft  tire  of  dry  wood 
wa>  1  turning  >teadily  with  a  low  and  unvarying  musical 
mar.  An  attendant  >at  iipri.u'lit  upon  a  rarv«-d  cliair  at 
tin-  font  of  the  IMM|,  n«>t  takin-  liix,-\(->  i ioiu  thr  sick 
man'>  ta«  •  . 

Thr  room  \\.»>    lar-e  and    ma^niticent    in    its   lurnitiin- 
and  appointments.      Tin-  hi^h  wainscot    had   been  carved 

in  rare  w Is  att.-r  tin-  dexjirMS   nj    ;i  ^r]-,.;,!    l-'mirh  artist. 

Tlir   walls   above    \\eiv   covered   with    matchless   Cordova 

leather  from  an  Italian  palae.-.    The  ceiling  was  composed 


THE   THREE   FATES.  61 

of  rich  panels  that  surrounded  a  broad  canvas  from  the 
hand  of  a  famous  Spanish  master,  dead  long  ago.  The 
chimney-piece  was  enriched  with  old  brass  work  from 
Cairo,  and  with  exquisite  tiles  from  Turkish  mosques. 
Priceless  eastern  carpets  of  which  not  one  was  younger 
than  the  century,  covered  the  inlaid  wooden  floor.  Diana 
of  Poitiers  had  slept  beneath  the  canopy  of  the  princely 
bedstead;  it  was  said  that  Louis  the  Fourteenth  had 
eaten  off  the  table  that  was  placed  beside  it,  and  Ben- 
venuto  Cellini  had  carved  the  silver  bell  which  stood 
within  reach  of  the  patient's  hand.  There  was  incon 
gruity  in  the  assemblage  of  different  objects,  but  the 
great  value  of  each  and  all  saved  the  effect  from  vul 
garity,  and  lent  to  the  whole  something  of  the  odd 
harmony  peculiar  to  certain  collections. 

It  was  the  opinion  of  the  two  doctors  that  Tom  Craik 
was  dying.  They  had  done  what  they  could  for  him  and 
were  waiting  for  the  end.  As  to  his  malady  it  was 
sufficiently  clear  to  both  of  them  that  his  vitality  was 
exhausted  and  that  even  if  he  survived  this  crisis  he 
could  not  have  long  to  live.  They  agreed  that  the  action 
of  the  heart  had  been  much  impaired  by  a  life  of  con 
stant  excitement  and  that  the  nerves  had  lost  their 
elasticity.  They  had  taken  pains  to  explain  to  his 
sister,  Mrs.  Sherrington  Trimm,  that  there  was  very  little 
to  be  done  and  that  the  patient  should  be  advised  to 
make  his  last  dispositions,  since  a  little  fatigue  more  or 
less  could  make  no  material  difference  in  his  state, 
whereas  he  would  probably  die  more  easily  if  his  mind 
were  free  from  anxiety.  Totty  had  spent  the  day  in  the 
house  and  intended  to  return  in  the  evening.  She  bore 
up  very  well  under  the  trial,  and  the  physicians  felt 
obliged  to  restrain  her  constant  activity  in  tending  her 
brother  while  she  was  in  the  room,  as  it  seemed  to  make 
him  nervous  and  irritable.  She  had  their  fullest  sym 
pathy,  of  course,  as  persons  who  are  supposed  to  be  sole 
legatees  of  the  dying  very  generally  1'ave,  but  so  far  as 
their  professional  capacity  was  concerned,  the  two  felt 


62  TIIK  THI:KK  FATES. 

that  it  went  U-tter  with  tin-  patient  when  his  faithful 
Sitter  \vas  out  of  tin-  house. 

Krom  time  to  time  inquiries  were  made  on  tin-  part 
of  acquaintances,  gem-rally  through  their  servants,  hut 
they  were  not  many.  Though  the  other  persons  in  tin- 
room  scarcely  heard  the  distant  ringing  of  t  he  muffled  bell, 

and  the  careful  opening  and  shutting  of  the  streei  d •. 

the  feeble  old  man  never  failed  to  catrh  the  sound  of  both 
and  either  with  his  eyes  or  half-uttered  words  asked  who 
had  called.  On  receiving  the  answer  he  generally  moved 
his  head  a  little  wearily  and  his  lids  drooped  again. 

"Is  there  anybody  you  expect?  Anybodv  you  wish  to 
see?"  one  of  the  physicians  once  asked,  bending  low  and 
speaking  softly.  He  suspected  that  something  was  dis 
quieting  the  dying  man's  mind. 

But  there  was  no  answer,  and  the  lids  drooped  again. 
It  was  now  dusk  and  it  would  soon  be  night.  Many 
hours  might  paflS  before  the  end  came,  and  the  doctor- 
consulted  ill  low  tones  as  to  which  of  them  should  remain, 
.lust  then  the  faint  and  distant  rattle  of  the  bell  was 
heard.  Immediately  Tom  Craik  stirred,  and  seemed  to 
be  listening  attentively.  The  two  men  ceased  speaking 
and  they  could  hear  the  front  door  softly  open  in  the 
street  below,  and  close  again  a  few  seconds  later.  One 
of  the  physicians  glanced  at  the  patient,  saw  the  usual 
look  of  inquiry  in  his  face  and  quickly  left  the  room. 
When  he  returned  he  held  a  card  in  his  hand,  which  he 
took  to  the  bedside  after  looking  at  it  by  the  fireside. 
Urmling  down,  he  spoke  in  a  low  tone. 

"Mr.  QeOTge  Winton  Wood  has  called."  he  said. 

Tom  Craik's  sunken  eyes  opened  suddenly  and  fixed 
themselves  on  the  speaker's  face. 

"Any  message.'  "  he  asked  very  feebly. 

"He  said  he  had  only  just  heard  <>t  \oiir  illness,  and 
was  very  sorry  —  would  call  a -a  in." 

A  strange  look  of  sat  ist'art  ion  came  into  the  old  man's 
colourless  tacc.  and  a  low  si-h  escaped  his  lips  as  he 
dosed  his  ,.\  Bfl  a-ain. 


THE  THREE  FATES.  68 

''Would  you  like  to  see  him?"  inquired  the  doctor. 

The  patient  shook  his  head  without  raising  his  lids, 
and  the  room  was  still  once  more.  Presently  the  other 
physician  departed  and  the  one  who  was  left  installed 
himself  in  a  comfortable  chair  from  which  he  could  see 
the  bed  and  the  door.  During  half  an  hour  no  sound  was 
heard  save  the  muffled  roar  of  the  wood  fire.  At  last  the 
sick  man  stirred  again. 

"Doctor  —  come  here,"  he  said  in  a  harsh  whisper. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Craik?  " 

"Send  for  Trimm  at  once." 

"Mrs.  Trimm,  did  you  say?" 

"No —  Sherry  Trimm  himself  —  make  my  will  —  see? 
Quick." 

The  physician  stared  at  his  patient  for  a  moment  in 
very  considerable  surprise,  for  he  thought  he  had  reason 
to  suppose  that  Thomas  Craik's  will  had  been  made 
already,  and  HOAV  ha  half  suspected  that  the  old  man's 
mind  was  wandering.  He  hesitated. 

"You  think  I'm  not  able,  do  you?"  asked  Craik,  his 
rough  whisper  rising  to  a  growl.  "Well,  I  am.  I'm 
not  dead  yet,  so  get  him  quickly." 

The  doctor  left  the  room  without  further  delay,  to  give 
the  necessary  orders.  When  he  returned,  Mr.  Craik  was 
lying  with  his  eyes  wide  open,  staring  at  the  fire. 

"Give  me  something,  can't  you?"  he  said  with  more 
energy  than  he  had  shown  that  day. 

The  doctor  began  to  think  that  it  was  not  yet  all  up 
with  his  patient,  as  he  mixed  something  in  a  glass  and 
gave  it  to  him.  Craik  drank  eagerly  and  moved  his 
stiffened  lips  afterwards  as  though  he  had  enjoyed  the 
taste  of  the  drink. 

"I  may  not  jockey  the  undertaker,"  he  grumbled,  "but 
I  shall  last  till  morning,  anyhow." 

Nearly  half  an  hour  elapsed  before  Sherrington  Trimm 
reached  the  house,  but  during  all  that  time  Thomas  Craik 
did  not  close  his  eyes  again.  His  face  looked  less  waxen, 
too,  and  his  sight  seemed  to  have  recovered  some  of  the 


(>4  i  in.    1 111:1.1     i   \  MB, 

liijht  that  had  been  lading  out  of  it  by  degreefl  all  day. 
The  doctor  Wfttohed  him  with  intrust.  wondering,  a.s  do.- 
tors  must  often  wonder.  wh;it  wa>  passing  in  his  brain, 
what  la>t.  unspent  remnant  of  life's  passions  had  can-'-, I 
so  Midden  a  ivvival  of  his  energy,  and  whether  this  man- 
it,  -tat  1011  of. strength  were  tin-  la.st  Man- of  tin-  dyin^lamp. 
or  whether  Tom  <  'raik.  to  use  liis  own  words,  would  jnckev 
the  Undertaker,  a*  In-  had  joeke\ed  many  another  advci- 
sary  in  his  stirring  existence, 

The  dOOr  Opened,  and  Sherrin^ton  Trimiii  entered  tin- 
room.  lie  was  u  short.  a«-tivi-  man,  sliirhtly  intdiiu-d  to 
be  stout,  bald  and  very  full  about  the  rhin  and  m-ck. 
with  sharp,  mnvable  blue  eyes,  and  a  (dosrly-cut ,  grizzled 
moustache.  His  hands  wriv  plump,  white  and  pointed, 
hi.s  feet  wen- diminutive  and  his  dress  was  irreproachable. 
He  had  a  habit  of  turning  his  head  quickly  to  the  rii^ht 
and  left  when  he  spoke,  as  though  challenging  eontradic- 
Moii.  He,  came  briskly  to  the  bedside  and  took  one  nt 
Craik's  wasted  hands  in  his,  with  a  look  of  honest  sym 
pathy. 

"How  are  you,  Tom?"  he  inquired,  .suppressing  hi> 
cheerful  voice  to  a  sort  of  subdued  chirp. 

"According  to  him."  growled  ('raik,  .^lancin^  a!  tin- 
doctor,  "1  believe  I  died  this  afternoon.  However,  1 
want  to  make  my  will,  so  LC<'t  out  your  tools.  Sherry,  and 
set  to.  IMease  leave  us  alone."  he  added,  looking  up  at 
the  physician. 

The  latter  went  out.  taking  the  attendant   with  him. 

"Your  will!"  exclaimed  Shcrr\  Triimii.  when  the 
door  had  closed  behind  the  two.  "  I  thought  — 

M  Bad  habit,  thinking  things.     Don't.     Put  that  drink 

where  I  can  reach  it  — so.      There's  paper  on    the   table. 
Sit  down." 

Trimm  saw  that  he  had  better  not  ar^iie  the  matter, 
and  he  did  as  he  was  bidden.  He  was  indeed  very  much 
>urpri.sed  at  t  he  Midden  turn  of  a  Hairs,  tor  he  was  per 
fectly  well  aware  that  Tom  ('raik  had  made  a  will  some 
\  ears  previously  in  which  he  left  his  whole  fortune  to 


THK   THREE    FATES.  65 

his  only  sister,  Trim  in 's  wife.  The  lawyer  wondered 
what  his  brother-in-law  intended  to  do  now,  and  as  the 
only  means  of  ascertaining  the  truth  seemed  to  be  to 
obey  his  orders,  lie  lost  no  time  in  preparing  to  receive 
the  dictation. 

"  This  the  last  will  and  testament  of  me,  Thomas 
(<raik,"  said  the  sick  man,  sharply.  "Got  that?  Go 
on.  I  do  hereby  revoke  and  annul  all  former  wills  made 
by  me.  That's  correct  isn't  it?  Xo,  I'm  not  wandering 
—  not  a  bit.  Very  important  that  clause  —  very.  Go 
ahead  about  the  just  debts  and  funeral  expenses.  L 
needn't  dictate  that." 

Trimm  wrote  rapidly  on,  nervously  anxious  to  get  to 
the  point. 

"  Got  that?  Well.  I  bequeath  all  my  worldly  posses 
sions,  real  and  personal  estate  of  all  kinds  —  go  on  with 
the  stock  phrases  —  include  house  and  furniture,  trinkets 
and  everything." 

Trimm 's  hand  moved  quickly  along  the  ruled  lines  of 
the  foolscap. 

"To  whom?"  he  asked  almost  breathlessly,  as  he 
reached  the  end  of  the  formal  phrase. 

"To  George  Winton  Wood,"  said  Craik  with  an  odd 
snap  of  the  lips.  "His  name's  011  that  card,  Sherry, 
beside  you,  if  you  don't  know  how  to  spell  it.  Go  on. 
Son  of  Jonah  Wood  of  New  York,  and  of  Fanny  Winton 
deceased,  also  of  Xew  York.  Xo  mistake  about  the 
identity,  eh?  Got  it  down?  To  have  and  to  hold  —  and 
all  the  rest  of  it.  Let's  get  to  the  signature  —  look 
sharp !  Get  in  the  witness  clause  right  —  that's  the  most 
important  —  don't  forget  to  say,  in  our  presence  and  in 
the  presence  of  each  other  —  there's  where  the  hitch 
comes  in  about  proving  wills.  All  right.  King  for  the 
doctor  and  we'll  have  the  witnesses  right  away.  Make 
the  date  clear." 

Sherrington  Trimm  had  not  recovered  from  his  sur 
prise,  as  he  pressed  the  silver  button  of  the  bell.  The 
physician  entered  immediately. 


ii  IK  THREE    i    \  i  i> 

"I'ail     you      l)r      the     other      witness     yourself.      ShelTN  '.' 

Kather    not'.'      l>oetor.     ju>t    send    1'nr    Stuhbs,    will    vou 

please?     M.-'ll  do.  won't  he?" 

'rriiniii  nodded,  while  he  and  the  physician  set  a  small 
invalid's  table  upon  the  sick  man's  knees,  ami  spread 
upon  it  the  will,  of  which  the  ink  was  not  \  «-t  di\. 
Trimin  dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink  and  handed  it  to  Mr. 
< 'raik. 

"Let  me  drink  first,"  said  the  latter.  He  swallowed 
the  small  draught  eagerly,  and  then  looked  about  him. 

"Will  yon  sign'.'"   asked  Trimm  nervously. 

"  Is  Stllbbs  here'.'     Wait  for  him.      Here.  Stubhs — yon 
-this  is  my  will.      I'm  going  to  sign  it.    and  you're 
a  witness." 

"  Ye>.  -11."  said  the  Itntler.  gravely.  He  moved  tor 
ward  eaiitioii>ly  ^n  that  he  eonld  see  tlie  document  and 
recognise  it  it  lie  should  ever  In-  called  upon  to  do  so. 

The  sick  man  steadied  himself  while  the  doctor  thiuM 
his  arm  behind  the  pillows  to  L,ri\e  him  more  support. 
Then  he  set  the  pen  to  the  paper  and  traced  his  name  in 
lario'.  clear  character>.  He  did  not  take  his  eyes  from 
the  paper  until  the  doctor  and  the  servant  hail  signed  as 
witnesses.  Then  his  head  i'ell  back  on  the  pillows. 

"Take  that  thin--  away.  Sherry,  and  keep  it."  he  said, 
feebly,  for  the  strength  had  ^one  out  of  him  all  at  once. 
"  Von  may  want  it  t« '-morrow  01  JTOU  may  not." 

Mechanically  he  laid  his  tin^er>  on  his  own  pulse,  and 
then  lay  <|iiit«-  still.  Sln-rrin^tnn  Trimm  looked  at  the 
doctor  with  an  expression  ot  inquiry,  but  the  latter  only 
shrilled  his  shoulders  and  turned  away.  After  such  a 
manifestation  of  energy  as  he  had  just  seen,  he  felt  that 
it  was  impossible  to  foresee  what  would  happen.  Tom 
( 'raik's  jierves  might  weather  the  strain  after  all.  and 
he  might  recover.  Mr.  Trimm  folded  the  document 
neath.  wrapped  it  in  a  second  sheet  of  paper  and  put  it 
into  his  pocket.  Then  he  prepared  to  take  his  leave. 
He  touched  the  sick  man's  hand  gent  1\  . 

••  i  iiMnl-niglit.  Tom,"  he  said,  bending  o\er 


'.THE   THREE   FATES.  67 

in-law.  "I  will  call  in  the  morning  and  ask  how  you 
are." 

Craik  opened  his  eyes< 

"Tell  nobody  what  I  have  done,  till  I'm  dead,"  he 
answered  in  a  whisper.  "Good-night." 

Mr.  Trinim  felt  no  inclination  to  divulge  the  contents 
of  the  will.  He  was  a  very  shrewd  and  keen  man,  who 
could  certainly  not  be  accused  of  having  ever  neglected 
his  own  interest,  but  he  was  also  scrupulously  honest, 
not  only  with  that  professional  honesty  which  is  both 
politic  and  lucrative,  but  in  all  his  thoughts  and  reason 
ings  with  himself.  At  the  present  moment,  his  position 
was  not  an  agreeable  one.  It  is  true  that  neither  he  nor 
his  wife  were  in  need  of  Craik' s  money,  for  they  had 
plenty  of  their  own;  but  it  is  equally  certain  that  during 
several  years  past  they  had  confidently  expected  to 
inherit  the  old  man's  fortune,  if  he  died  before  them. 
Trimm  had  himself  drawn  up  the  will  by  which  his  wife 
was  made  the  heir  to  almost  everything  Craik  possessed. 
There  had  been  a  handsome  legacy  provided  for  this  same 
George  Wintoii  Wood,  but  all  the  rest  was  to  have  been 
Totty's.  And  now  Trimm  had  seen  the  whole  aspect  of 
the  future  changed  by  a  stroke  of  the  pen,  apparently 
during  the  last  minutes  of  the  old  man's  life.  He  knew 
that  the  testator  was  in  full  possession  of  his  senses,  and 
that  the  document  was  as  valid  as  any  will  could  be. 
Conscientious  as  he  was,  if  he  had  believed  that  Craik 
was  no  longer  sane,  he  would  have  been  quite  ready  to 
take  advantage  of  the  circumstance,  and  would  have  lost 
no  time  in  consulting  the  physician  with  a  view  to 
obtaining  evidence  in  the  case  that  would  arise.  But  it 
was  evident  that  Craik's  mind  was  in  no  way  affected  by 
his  illness.  The  thing  was  done,  and  if  Craik  died  it  was 
irrevocable.  Sherry  and  Totty  Trimm  would  never  live 
in  the  magnificent  house  of  which  they  had  so  often  talked. 

"Not  even  the  house!  "  he  whispered  to  himself  as  he 
went  down  stairs.  "Xot  even  the  house!  " 

For  a  legacy  he  would  not  have  cared.     A   few  thou- 


b8  THK     IIIKI.I.    IA1!.>. 

sands  were  no  ohjeet  to  him.  and  In-  was  unlike  his  wilt* 
ill  that  In-  ilid  n«'t  .-an-  for  money  itself.  Tin-  whole 
fortune,  or  lialf  of  it,  added  to  what  tin*  couple  already 
had,  would  have  made  in  their  lives  the  differeiirr 
between  luxury  and  splendour;  tin-  pOM6arion  of  the 
house  alone,  with  what  it  contained,  would  have  jrivrn 
them  the  keenrst  pleasure,  but  in  Trimm's  opinion  a 
paltrv  legacy  of  ten  thoiisaml  dollars,  or  so,  would  not 
have  hern  worth  tin-  trouble  of  taking.  Of  cour.se  it  was 
possible  that  '1'oiu  <  'raik  in  ight  reeovrr.  and  make  a  t  hird 
will.  Triiniu  knew  by  experience  that  a  man  who  will 
oner  dialler  his  mind  completely.  ma\  change  it  a  dozen 
time>  if  hr  havr  timr.  Hut  Craik  was  very  ill  and  there 

srrlnrd      little     likelihood     of     his     e\rr     getting     UpoH    Ills 

le^s  a^ain. 

Trimm  had  known  much  of  his  brot  her-in-law\  attair> 
during  the  last  twent\  \ear>.  and  he  was  far  Ir.ss  sur 
prised  at  the  way  in  whicli  lie  had  now  finally  wound 
them  up,  before  taking  his  departure  from  lite,  than 
most  people  would  have  been.  He  knew  better  than  an\ 
one  that  Craik  was  not  so  utterly  bad-hearted  as  he  w;-i> 
generally  believed  to  be,  and  he  knew  that  as  the  man 
ijrew  older  hr  frit  twinges  of  remorse  when  he  thought 
of  Jonah  Wood.  'That  he  cordially  detested  the  latter 
was  not  alto^.-ther  aMonishin^.  sincr  hr  had  .so  j^reat  1\ 
injured  him.  hut  the  natural  contrariety  of  his  nature 
forced  him  into  an  illogical  situation.  He  hated  \Yood 
and  vet  he  desin-d  to  make  him  BOXH6  >ort  of  rest  it  ut  ion. 
not  indeed  out  of  principle  or  ivsprrt  lor  an\  law.  human 
or  divine,  but  as  a  means  of  pacifying  his  half-nervous. 
liall-.siiper>t  it  ions  conscien<-e.  He  could  not  have  done 
anything  openly  in  the  matter,  for  that  would  have  been 
equivalent  to  acknowledurin^  t  lie  unwritten  debt.  >«.  tliat 
the  only  way  out  of  his  ditlieulty  lay  in  the  disposal  of 
his  fortune  alter  his  death.  Hut  although  lie  .suffered 
something  very  like  remorse,  he  hated  Jonah  \\ood  tOO 
thoi-ou^hh  to  insert  his  name  in  his  will.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done  but  to  leave  money  to  QeOfgB.  It 


THE    THREE    FATES.  t)9 

had  seemed  to  him  that  a  legacy  of  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars  would  be  enough  to  procure  his  own  peace  of 
mind,  and  having  once  made  that  arrangement  he  had 
dismissed  the  subject. 

But  as  he  lay  in  this  illness,  which  he  believed  was  to 
be  his  last,  further  change  had  taken  place  in  his  view 
of  the  matter.  He  was  naturally  suspicious,  as  well  as 
shrewd,  and  the  extreme  anxiety  displayed  by  his  sister 
had  attracted  his  attention.  They  had  always  lived  on 
excellent  terms,  and  Totty  was  distinctly  a  woman  of 
demonstrative  temperament.  It  was  assuredly  not  sur 
prising  that  she  should  show  much  feeling  for  her  brother 
and  spend  much  time  in  taking  care  of  him.  It  was  quite 
right  that  she  should  be  at  his  bedside  in  moments  of 
danger,  and  that  she  should  besiege  the  doctors  with 
questions  about  Tom's  chances  of  recovery.  But  in 
Tom's  opinion  there  was  a  false  note  in  her  good  behav 
iour  and  a  false  ring  in  her  voice.  There  was  something 
strained,  something  not  quite  natural,  something  he 
could  hardly  define,  but  which  roused  all  the  powers  of 
opposition  for  which  he  had  been  famous  throughout  his 
life.  It  was  a  peculiarity  of  his  malady  that  his  mental 
faculties  were  wholly  unimpaired,  and  were,  if  anything, 
sharpened  by  his  bodily  sufferings  and  by  his  anxiety 
about  his  own  state.  The  consequence  was  that  as  soon 
as  the  doubt  about  Totty 's  sincerity  had  entered  his 
mind,  he  had  concentrated  his  attention  upon  it,  had 
studied  it  and  had  applied  himself  to  accounting  for  her 
minutest  actions  and  most  careless  words  upon  the  theory 
that  she  was  playing  a  part.  In  less  than  twenty-four 
hours  the  suspicion  had  become  a  conviction,  and  Craik 
felt  sure  that  Totty  was  overdoing  her  show  of  sisterly 
affection  in  order  to  hide  her  delight  at  the  prospect  of 
her  brother's  death.  It  is  not  too  unjust  to  say  that 
there  was  a  proportion  of  truth  in  Mr.  Craik's  supposi 
tions,  and  that  Mrs.  Sherrington  Trimm's  perturbation 
of  spirits  did  not  result  so  much  from  the  dread  of  a 
great  sorrow  as  from  the  prospect  of  a  very  great  satis- 


7<»  THK  THKKK  i  A  i  i .-. 

faction  when  that  sorrow  should  have  spent  itself.  She 
WM  n«'t  in  the  leaM  ashamed  of  her  heartle»ne>s.  either. 
\\  ;is  she  not  doing  everything  in  lirr  power  to  soothe  her 
brother's  last  days,  sacrificing  to  his  comfort  tin-  last 
feMte  of  gaiety  sh«-  could  enjoy  until  tin-  nioni -ning  for 
him  should  be  over,  submitting  to  a  derangement  of  her 
Comfortable  existence  which  was  nothing  short  of  dis 
tracting?  It  was  not  her  fault  it  Tom  had  not  one  ••! 
those  lovable  natures  whose  departure  from  this  lite 
leaves  a  givat  voiil  in  the  place  where  they  have  d\\clt. 
But  from  bring  convinced  that  Totty  oared  only  tnr 
the  money  to  the  act  of  depriving  her  of  it  was  a  long 
distance  for  the  old  man's  mind  to  pass  over.  He  vrafl 
juM  eunuch  t«»  admit  that  in  a  similar  jx.sition  he  would 
have  felt  \  cry  much  as  she  did.  though  he  would  certainh 
have  acted  his  part  m<»re  skilfully  and  with  less  theatrical 
exaggeration.  After  all,  money  was  a  very  good  thing. 
and  a  very  desirable  thing,  as  Thomas  <  'iaik  knew,  better 
than  most  people.  After  all.  tun.  T<>tty  was  In-  sister, 
his  nearest  relation,  the  only  one  of  his  connections  with 
whom  he  had  not  quarrelled  at  one  time  or  another. 
The  world  would  think  it  very  natural  that  she  should 
have  everything,  and  there  was  no  reason  why  she  should 
not,  unless  her  anxiety  to  get  it  could  be  called  one.  He 
considered  the  ease  in  all  its  bearings.  If,  for  instance. 
that  young  fellow,  ilenrg'1  Wood,  whom  lie  had  not  seen 
since  lie  had  been  a  boy.  were  to  be  put  in  Totty's  place, 
what  would  he  led.  and  what  would  he  do?  He  would 
undoubtedly  wish  that  Tom  Craik  might  die  speedily, 
and  his  eyes  would  assuredly  gleam  when  he  thought  of 
moving  into  the  gorgeous  house,  a  month  after  the 
funeral.  That  was  only  human  nature,  simple,  una 
dorned,  everyday  human  nature.  But  the  boy  supposed 
that  he  had  no  chance  of  getting  anything,  and  did  not 
even  think  it  worth  while  to  ring  at  the  door  and  ask  tin- 
news  of  his  dying  relation.  Of  course  not;  why  .should 
he'.'  And  yet.  thought  the  sour  old  man,  if  (leorge  Wood 
could  guess  how  near  he  was  to  being  made  a  millionaire. 


THE   THREE   FATES.  71 

how  nimbly  his  feet  would  move  in  the  appropriate 
direction,  with  what  alacrity  he  would  ring  the  bell, 
with  what  an  accent  of  subdued  sympathy  he  would 
question  the  servant!  Truly,  if  by  any  chance  he 
should  take  it  into  his  head  to  make  inquiries,  there 
would  be  an  instance  of  disinterested  good  feeling, 
indeed.  He  would  never  do  that.  Why  then  should 
the  money  be  given  to  him  rather  than  to  Totty? 

But  the  idea  had  taken  possession  of  the  old  man's  active 
brain,  and  would  not  be  chased  away.  As  he  thought 
about  it,  too,  it  seemed  as  though  he  might  die  more 
easily  if  such  full  restitution  were  made.  No  one  could 
tell  anything  about  the  future  state  of  existence.  Thomas 
Craik  was  no  atheist,  though  he  had  never  found  time  or 
inclination  to  look  into  the  question  of  religion,  and  cer 
tain  peculiarities  in  his  past  conduct  had  made  any  such 
meditations  particularly  distasteful  to  him.  When  once 
the  end  had  come  the  money  could  be  of  no  use  to  him, 
and  if  George  Wood  had  it,  Thomas  Craik  might  stand  a 
better  chance  in  the  next  world.  Totty  had  received  her 
share  of  the  gain,  too,  and  had  no  claim  to  any  more  of 
it.  He  had  managed  her  business  with  his  own  and  had 
enriched  her  while  enriching  himself,  with  what  had  be 
longed  to  Jonah  Wood,  and  to  a  great  number  of  other 
people.  At  all  events,  if  he  left  everything  to  George  no 
one  could  accuse  him  hereafter  —  whatever  that  might 
mean  —  with  not  having  done  all  he  could  to  repair  the 
wrong.  He  said  to  himself  philosophically  that  one  of 
two  things  must  happen;  either  he  was  to  die,  and  in 
that  case  he  would  do  well  to  die  with  as  clear  a  con 
science  as  he  could  buy,  or  he  was  to  recover,  and  would 
then  have  plenty  of  time  to  reflect  upon  his  course  without 
having  deprived  himself  of  what  he  liked. 

At  last,  between  the  two  paths  that  were  open  to  him, 
he  became  confused,  and  with  characteristic  coolness  he 
determined  to  leave  the  matter  to  chance.  If  George  Wood 
showed  enough  interest  in  him  to  come  to  the  door  and 
make  inquiries,  he  would  change  his  will.  If  the  young 


72  THF.  TIM:  IF.   i  \TES. 

fellow  did  not  show  himself.  Totty  should    have  the  for- 

tllllr. 

"That's  \vliat  I  call  giving  Providence  a  perfectly  fair 
chance."  he  said  to  himself.  A  few  hours  after  lie  had 
reached  this  conclusion  ( ieorge  actually  came  to  the  house. 

Then  Tom  Craik  hesitated  n«»  longer.  The  whole  thing 
was  done  and  conclnsiYely  settled  without  loss  of  time. 

as  Craik  had  always  loved  to  do  busim---. 

[t  is  probable  that  if  (n-orge  had  guessed  the  impor- 

tance  of  the  sini|.le  act  of  a>kiiii,r  after  his  relation'^ 
condition,  he  would  have  L,r«'iie  home  without  passing  the 
door,  and  would  have  spent  BO  much  time  in  reflecting 
upon  his  course,  that  it  would  have  l»een  too  late  to  do 
anything  in  the  matter.  Tin-  problem  would  not  have 
l>cen  an  easy  "tie  to  xnlvr.  involving,  as  it  did.  a  ipu-stion 
of  honesty  in  nmtiv.-  on  the  «.ne  hand,  and  a  con>idei-ation 
of  tni6  Justice  OH  the  Other.  If  any  one  had  asked  him 
for  his  advice  in  a  similar  case  he  would  have  answered 
with  a  dry  lau^rli  that  a  man  should  never  neglect  his  op 
portunities,  that  no  one  would  In-  injured  l.y  the  transi 
tion,  and  that  the  money  helon^t-d  liy  right  to  the  family 
of  the  man  from  whom  it  had  heeii  unjustly  taken.  I'.iit 
though  (ieor^r  emild  aftVct  a  cynically  pi'actical  luisinex^ 
torn-  in  talking  of  other  people's  affairs  he  was  not  ca- 
paluV  of  act  ing  upon  such  principles  in  his  own  case.  To 
extract  profit  of  any  sort  from  what  was  not hing  short  of 
hypocrisy  would  have  been  impossible  to  him. 

He  had  been  unable  to  resist  the  temptation  of  asking 
the  new>.  because  he  sincerely  hoped  that  the  old  man 
aln.ni  to  draw  his  last  breath,  and  because  there 
seemed  to  him  t  o  1  H-  s.  unet  h  ing  alt  rai-t  iv«-ly  inuiieal  in  tin- 
action.  He  evm  expected  that  .Mi'.  < 'raik  would  undei'- 
stand  that  the  in«|iiiry  was  made  from  motives  of  hatred 
ratherthan  of  sympathy,  and  imagined  with  pleasiirethat 
the  thought  might  intlict  a  sting  and  embitter  his  last 
moments.  Tin-re  was  nothing  eoMtrary  to  George's  feel 
ings  in  that,  though  he  would  have  flushed  with  sham-- 
at  the  idea  that  he  was  to  be  misunder>tood  and  that 


THE    THREE   FATES.  73 

what  was  intended  for  an  insult  was  to  be  rewarded  with 
a  splendid  fortune. 

Very  possibly,  too,  there  was  a  feeling  of  opposition 
concerned  in  his  act,  for  which  he  himself  could  not 
have  accounted.  He  was  not  fond  of  advice,  and  Con 
stance  Fearing  had  seemed  very  anxious  that  he  should 
not  do  what  he  had  done.  Being  still  very  young,  it 
seemed  absurd  to  him  that  a  young  girl  whom  he  scarcely 
knew  and  had  only  seen  twice  should  interfere  with  his 
free  will. 

This  contrariety  was  wholly  unreasoning,  and  if  he 
had  tried  to  understand  it,  he  would  have  failed  in  the 
attempt.  He  would  certainly  not  have  attributed  it  to 
the  beginning  of  a  serious  affection,  for  he  was  not  old 
enough  to  know  how  often  love's  early  growth  is  hidden 
by  what  we  take  wrongly  for  an  antagonism  of  feeling. 

However  all  these  things  may  be  explained,  George 
Wood  felt  that  he  was  in  a  humour  quite  new  to  him, 
when  he  rang  at  Tom  Craik's  door.  He  was  elated  with 
out  knowing  why,  and  yet  he  was  full  of  viciously 
combative  instincts.  His  heart  beat  with  a  pleasant 
alacrity,  and  his  mind  was  unusually  clear.  He  would 
have  said  that  he  was  happy,  and  yet  his  happiness  was 
by  no  means  of  the  kind  which  makes  men  at  peace  with 
their  surroundings  or  gentle  toward  those  with  whom 
they  have  to  do.  There  was  something  overbearing  in 
it,  that  agreed  with  his  natural  temper  and  that  found 
satisfaction  in  what  was  meant  for  an  act  of  unkindness. 

He  found  his  father  reading  before  the  fire.  The  old 
gentleman  read,  as  he  did  everything  else,  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  is  performing  a  serious  duty.  He  sat  in 
a  high-backed  chair  with  wooden  arms,  his  glasses  care 
fully  adjusted  upon  his  nose,  his  head  held  high,  his  lips 
set  in  a  look  of  determination,  his  long  hands  holding 
the  heavy  volume  in  the  air  before  his  sight  and  expres 
sive  in  their  solid  grasp  of  a  fixed  and  unalterable  pur 
pose.  George  paused  on  the  threshold,  wondering  for 
the  thousandth  time  that  so  much  resolution  of  character 


7  1  THK    THi;  HI.    PATH! 

a>  was  visible  in  tin-  least  nt'  hi.s  lather's  actions,  should 
have  produced  so  little  practical  result  in  the  strn^l.-s 
dt'  a  Ion-  life. 

"  Won'tyou  shut  that  door,  George?"  said  .Imiah  \\Ood, 
not  looking  away  from  his  hook  nor  moving  a  muscle. 

George  did  as  lie  was  requested  and  came  slowly  for 
ward.  He  stood  still  for  a  moment  before  the  fireplace, 
spreading  his  hands  to  the  hla/.e. 

'•Tom  Craik  is  dying,''  he  said  at  last,  looking  at  his 
father's  face. 

There  was  an  almost  imperceptible  quiver  in  the  strong 
hands  that  held  the  book.  A  very  slight  colour  rose  in 
the  massive  grey  face.  But  that  was  all.  The  eyes  re 
mained  fixed  on  the  pa-e.  and  the  aii^le  at  which  the 
volume  was  supported  did  not  elian^r. 

••  \Vell,"  said  the  mechanical  voice,  "we  must  all  die 
some  day." 


(  IIAI'TKR    VI. 

The  world  was  very  much  surprised  when  it  was 
informed  that  Thomas  Craik  was  not  dead  after  all. 
During  86Y6ra]  weeks  he  lay  in  the  utmost  danger,  and 
it  was  little  short  of  a  miracle  that  he  was  kept  alive  — 
one  of  those  miracles  which  are  sometimes  performed 
upon  the  rich  by  physicians  in  luck.  While  he  was  ill 
(Jeor^e,  who  was  disappointed  to  find  that  there  was  so 
much  life  in  his  enemy,  made  frequent  inquiries  at  the 
house,  a  fact  of  which  Mr.  Craik  took  note,  setting  it 
down  to  the  youn.LC  man's  credit.  Nor  did  it  escape  the 
keen  old  man  that  his  siMer  Totty's  expression  ^rew  less 
hopeful,  as  he  himself  i^rew  better,  and  that  her  lit.-  ><\ 
>pa>modie  and  elVusive  rejoicing  over  his  recovery  were 
Miceeeded  by  periods  of  abstraction  during  which  she 
•eemed  to  he  -a/in-  re-ret  fully  upon  some  slowly  reced- 
l  ision  of  h 


THE   THREE   FATES.  75 

Mrs.  Sherrington  Trimm  was  indeed  not  to  be  envied. 
In  the  first  place  all  immediate  prospect  of  inheriting 
her  brother's  fortune  was  removed  by  his  unexpected 
convalescence;  and,  secondly,  she  had  a  suspicion  that 
in  the  midst  of  his  illness  he  had  made  some  change  in 
the  disposition  of  his  wealth.  It  would  be  hard  to  say 
how  this  belief  had  formed  itself  in  her  mind,  for  her 
husband  was  a  man  of  honour  and  had  scrupulously  obeyed 
(Jraik's  injunction  to  be  silent  in  regard  to  the  will.  He 
found  this  the  more  easy,  because  what  he  liked  least  in 
his  wife's  character  was  her  love  of  money.  Having 
only  one  child,  he  deemed  his  own  and  Totty's  fortunes 
more  than  sufficient,  and  he  feared  lest  if  she  were 
suddenly  enriched  beyond  her  neighbours,  she  might 
launch  into  the  career  of  a  leader  of  society  and  take  up 
a  position  very  far  from  agreeable  to  his  own  more 
modest  tastes.  Sherry  Trimm  \vas  an  eminently  sensible 
as  well  as  an  eminently  honourable  man.  He  possessed 
a  very  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  and  he  knew  how 
easily  a  woman  like  Totty  could  be  made  the  subject  of 
ridicule,  if  she  had  her  own  way,  and  if  she  suddenly 
were  placed  in  circumstances  where  the  question  of 
expenditure  need  never  be  taken  into  consideration. 
She  had  rarely  lost  an  opportunity  of  telling  him  what 
she  should  do  if  she  were  enormously  rich,  and  it  was 
not  hard  to  see  that  she  confidently  expected  to  possess 
such  riches  as  would  enable  her  to  carry  out  what  Sherry 
called  her  threats. 

On  the  other  hand  Mr.  Trimm's  sense  of  honour  was 
satisfied  by  his  brother-in-law's  new  will.  There  is  a 
great  deal  more  of  that  sort  of  manly,  honourable  feeling 
among  Americans  than  is  dreamed  of  in  European  phi 
losophy.  Europe  calls  us  a  nation  of  business  men,  but 
it  generally  forgets  that  we  are  not  a  nation  of  shop 
keepers,  and  that  if  we  esteem  a  merchant  as  highly  as 
a  soldier  or  a  lawyer  it  is  because  we  know  by  experi 
ence  that  the  hands  which  handle  money  can  be  kept  as 
clean  as  those  that  draw  the  sword  or  hold  the  pen.  In 


76  THK    THRKK    I  A  I  1>. 

strong  races  the  man  ennobles  tin-  occupation,  the  occu 
pation  does  imt  degrade  tin-  man.  It'  Thomas  Craik  wa> 
dishonest,  .lonah  Wood  and  Sin-mutton  Triinin  were 
botli  as  upright  gentlemen  as  any  in  tin-  whole  world. 
It  was  imt  in  , lonali  \V« mil's  power  to  recover  what  had 
been  taken  from  him  by  operations  that  were  only  just 
within  tin-  pal.-  of  tin-  law.  because  laws  have  not  yet 

l>een  macle  for  such  MMMj  nor  was  it  Bherrington 
Trimm's  vocation  to  play  upon  Tom  Craik's  conscience 
in  the  interests  ot  semi-poetic  justice.  But  Trimm  was 
honourable  enough  and  disinterested  ••imugh  to  ivjoirc 
at  the  prosi>ect  of  seeing  stolen  money  restored  to  itx 
possessor  instead  of  bi-ini;  emptied  into  his  wife's  purse, 
and  lie  was  manly  enough  to  have  felt  the  same  satisfac 
tion  in  the  act.  if  his  own  eireu instances  had  bren  far 
less  flourishing. 

But  Totty  thought  very  differently  of  all  these  thin--. 
She  had  in  her  inueh  of  her  brother's  nature,  and  the 
love  of  money,  whieh  being  interpreted  into  American 
moans  essentially  the  love  of  what  money  can  give, 
dominated  her  eharacter.  and  poisoned  the  pleasant 
Dualities  with  which  she  was  undoubtedly  endowed. 
She  had.  as  a  natural  concomitant,  the  keenest  instinct 
about  money  and  the  quarter  from  which  it  was  to  be 
expected.  Sunn-thing  was  wrong  in  her  financial  atmos 
phere,  and  she  felt  the  diminution  of  pressure  ;is  .piickly 
and  as  certainly  as  a  good  barometer  indicates  the 
approaching  south  wind  when  the  weather  is  still  clear 
and  bright.  It  was  of  no  use  to  question  her  husband, 
and  she  knew  her  brother  .well  enough  to  he  aware  that 
he  would  conceal  his  purpose  to  the  last.  But  there  was 
an  element  of  anxiety  and  doubt  in  her  life  which  she 
had  not  known  before.  Tom  Craik  saw  that  much  in 
her  face  and  suspected  that  it  was  the  result  of  his 
recovery.  He  did  not  regret  what  he  had  done  and  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  abide  by  it. 

Meanwhile  (ieorge  Wood  varied  the  dreariness  of  his 
hardworking  life  b\  seeing  as  much  as  possible  of  the 


THE    THREE   FATES.  77 

Fearings.  He  went  to  the  house  in  Washington  Square 
as  often  as  he  dared,  and  before  long  his  visits  had 
assumed  a  regularity  which  was  noticeable,  to  say  the 
least  of  it.  If  he  had  still  felt  any  doubt  as  to  what  was 
passing  in  his  own  heart  at  the  end  of  the  first  month, 
lie  felt  none  whatever  as  the  spring  advanced.  He  was 
in  love  with  Constance,  and  he  knew  it.  The  young 
girl  was  aware  of  the  fact  also,  as  was  her  sister,  who 
looked  on  with  evident  disapproval. 

"Why  do  you  not  send  the  man  away?"  Grace  asked, 
one  evening  when  they  were  alone. 

"Why  should  I?"  inquired  Constance,  changing  col 
our  a  little  though  her  voice  was  quiet. 

"  Because  you  are  flirting  with  him,  and  no  good  can 
come  of  it,"  Grace  answered  bluntly. 

"Flirting?  I?"  The  elder  girl  raised  her  eyebrows 
in  innocent  surprise.  The  idea  was  evidently  new  to 
her,  and  by  no  means  agreeable. 

"Yes,  flirting.  What  else  can  you  call  it,  I  would 
like  to  know?  He  comes  to  see  you  —  oh  yes,  you  can 
not  deny  it.  It  is  certainly  not  for  me.  He  knows  I 
am  engaged,  and  besides,  I  think  he  knows  that  I  do 
not  like  him.  Very  well  —  he  conies  to  see  you,  then. 
You  receive  him,  you  smile,  you  talk,  you  take  an  inter 
est  in  everything  he  does  —  I  heard  you  giving  him 
advice  the  other  day.  Is  not  that  flirting?  He  is  in 
love  with  you,  or  pretends  to  be,  which  is  the  same 
thing,  and  you  encourage  him." 

"Pretends  to  be?  Why  should  he  pretend?"  Con 
stance  asked  the  questions  rather  dreamily,  as  though  she 
had  put  them  to  herself  before  and  more  than  half  knew 
the  answer.  Grace  laughed  a  little. 

"  Because  you  are  eminently  worth  while, "  she  replied. 
"Do  you  suppose  that  if  you  were  as  poor  as  he  is,  he 
would  come  so  often?" 

"That  is  not  very  good-natured,"  observed  Constance, 
taking  up  her  book  again.  There  was  very  little  sur 
prise  in  her  tone,  however,  and  Grace  was  glad  to  note 


78  THK    THKKK    FATK>. 

tin-  tact.      Her  sister  irafl  l«->^  simple   than   she   had  sup- 


••<iood  nature!"  sin-  exrlaimed.  "What  has  good 
nature  to  do  with  it'.'  \^>  you  think  Mr.  Wood  eoim-s 
here  out  of  good  nature'.'  He  wants  to  marry  you.  m\ 
dear.  He  cannot,  and  therefore  you  ought  to  send  liim 
away." 

"If  I  loved  him,  I  would  marry  him." 

"  But  you  do  not.  And,  besides,  the  thing  is  absurd! 
A  man  with  no  position  of  any  sort  —  none  of  any  suit. 
I  assure  you  —  without  fortune,  and  what  is  much  worse. 
without  any  profession." 

"Literature  is  a  profession." 

"Oh,  literature  —  yes.  Of  course  it  is.  l»ut  those 
miserable  little  criticisms  he  writes  are  not  literature. 
Why  does  he  not  write  a  book,  or  even  join  a  newspaper 
and  be  a  journalist?  " 

"Perhaps  he  will.  I  am  always  telling  him  that  lie 
should.  And  as  for  position,  he  is  a  gentleman,  whether 
he  chooses  to  go  into  society  or  not.  His  lather  was  a 
New  Englander,  I  believe  —  but  I  have  heard  poor  papa 
say  very  nice  things  about  him  —  and  his  mother  was  a 
Winton  and  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Trimm's.  There  is  noth 
ing  better  than  that.  I  suppose." 

••  Yes  —  that  odious  Totty!"  exelaimed  (Jraee  in  a 
tone  of  unmeasured  e.mtrmpt.  "Shfl  brought  him  here 
in  the  hope  that  mie  uf  us  would  take  a  faiiey  to  him  and 
help  her  poor  relation  out  of  his  diHirult  ies.  Uesides. 
she  is  the  silliest,  shallowest  little  woman  1  everknew!" 

"I  dar«-sa\  .  I  am  n<>t  fond  of  her.  I'.iit  you  are 
unjust,  to  Mr.  Wood.  He  is  very  talented,  and  he  works 
very  hard  - 

"At  what'.'  At  those  wretehed  little  paragraphs'.'  I 
could  write  a  do/en  of  them  in  an  hour!  " 

"I  could  not.  One  has  to  read  the  hooks  iirst.  vmi 
know." 

"Well  —  say  two  hours,  then.  I  am  sine  I  could 
write  a  do/en  in  two  hmii^.  Such  stuff,  my  dear!  You 


THE   THREE   FATES.  79 

are  dazzled  by  his  conversation.  He  does  talk  fairly 
well,  when  he  pleases.  I  admit  that." 

"  I  am  glad  you  leave  him  something, "  said  Constance. 
"As  for  my  marrying  him,  that  is  a  very  different 
matter.  I"  have  not  the  slightest  idea  of  doing  that. 
To  be  quite  honest,  the  idea  has  crossed  my  mind  that 
he  might  wish  it " 

"And  yet  you  let  him  come?  " 

"Yes.  I  cannot  tell  him  not  to  come  here,  and  I  like 
him  too  much  to  be  unkind  to  him  —  to  be  cold  and  rude 
for  the  sake  of  sending  him  away.  If  he  ever  speaks  of 
it,  it  will  be  time  to  tell  him  what  I  think.  If  he  does 
not,  it  does  him  no  harm  —  nor  me  either,  as  far  as  I 
can  see." 

"I  do  not  know.  It  seems  to  me  that  to  encourage  a 
man  and  then  drop  him  when  he  can  hold  his  tongue  no 
longer  is  the  reverse  of  human  kindness." 

"  And  it  seems  to  me,  my  dear,  that  you  are  beginning 
to  argue  from  another  side  of  the  question.  I  did  not 
understand  that  it  was  out  of  consideration  for  Mr. 
Wood " 

"No,  it  was  not,"  Grace  admitted  with  a  laugh.  "I 
am  cruel  enough  to  wish  that  you  would  be  unkind  to 
him  without  waiting  for  him  to  offer  himself.  You  are 
a  very  inscrutable  person,  Conny!  I  wish  I  could  find 
out  what  you  really  think." 

Constance  made  no  answer,  but  smiled  gently  at  her 
sister  as  she  took  up  her  book  for  the  second  time.  She 
began  to  read  as  though  she  did  not  care  to  continue  the 
conversation,  and  Grace  made  no  effort  to  renew  it.  She 
understood  enough  of  Constance's  character  to  be  sure 
that  she  could  never  understand  it  thoroughly,  and  she 
relinquished  the  attempt  to  ascertain  the  real  state  of 
tilings.  If  Constance  had  vouchsafed  any  reply,  she 
would  have  said  that  she  was  in  considerable  perplexity 
concerning  her  own  thoughts.  For  the  present,  how- 
over,  her  doubts  gave  her  very  little  trouble.  She 
possessed  one  of  those  culm  characters  which  never  force 


80  I  HI.     I  Hlil.l.     1   A  Pig. 

their  owners  to  be  in  a  hurry  about  a  decision,  and  she 
\vas  n<>\\.  as  always.  quite  willing  to  wait  and  see  \\hat 
Course  her  inclinations  would  take. 

Calmness  of  this  sort  is  oiten  tin-  result  of  an  inl.orn 
distrust  of  motives  in  oneself  and  in  others,  combined 
with  an  alnio>t  t«»tal  absence  of  iiu pat  iciice.  Tin-  idea 
that  it  is  ill  general  better  to  wait  than  to  act.  get>  the 
upper  hand  of  the  whole  nature  ami  keeps  it,  perhaps 
throughout  life,  perhaps  only  until  .sonic  strung  and 
disturbing  passion  breaks  down  the  fabric  of  indolent 
prejudice  which  surrounds  such  minds.  Constance  had 
thought  of  most  of  the  points  which  her  sister  had 
brought  up  against  (ieorge  \Yood.  and  was  not  at  all 
surprised  to  hear  (ira.-e  speak  as  she  had  spoken.  On 
the  contrary  she  frit  a  sort  of  mental  pride  in  having 

herself  discerned  all  the  objections  which  stood  in  the 

way  of  her  hiving  (ieorge.  None  of  them  had  appeared 
to  he  Insurmountable,  because  none  of  them  were  in 
reality  quite  just.  She  was  willing  to  admit  that  her 
fortune  might  be  what  most  attracted  him.  but  she  had 

no  proof  ol  the  fact,  and  having  doubted  him.  she  was 
ijuite  as  much  inclined  to  doubt  her  own  judgment  of 
him.  His  social  position  was  not  sat  i>  factory,  as  Grace 
had  said,  but  she  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  this 
was  due  In  his  distaste  for  society,  especially  since  she 
had  heard  many  persons  of  her  acquaintance  BZpreSfl 
th«-ir  regret  that  the  two  Woods  could  not  forget  old 
scores.  lli>  literary  performances  were  assuredly  not  of 
the  tirst  order,  and  she  felt  an  odd  sort  of  shame  for 
him.  when  she  thought  of  the  poor  little  paragraphs  he 
turned  out  in  the  papers,  and  compared  the  work  with 
his  conversation.  I'.ut  (n-orge  had  often  explained  to 
her  that  he  u  as  obliged  to  write  his  notices  in  a  certain 
way.  and  that  he  oeeiijiied  his  spare  time  in  producing 
matter  of  a  \ei-y  different  de.xeript  ion.  In  lad  there 
were  answer^  to  everjf  One  of  Grace'fl  objections  and 
< ''instance  had  already  framed  for  herself  the  replies 
she  was  prepared  to  ui\e  her  sister. 


THE   THKEE    FATES.  81 

Her  principal  difficulty  lay  in  another  direction.  Was 
the  very  decided  liking  she  felt  for  George  Wood  the 
beginning  of  love,  or  was  it  not?  That  it  was  not  love 
at  the  present  time  she  was  convinced,  for  her  instinct 
told  her  truly  that  if  she  had  loved  him,  she  could  not  have 
discussed  him  so  calmly.  What  she  defined  as  her  lik 
ing  was,  however,  already  so  pronounced  that  she  could 
see  no  objection  to  allowing  it  to  turn  into  something 
warmer  and  stronger  if  it  would,  provided  she  were  able 
to  convince  herself  of  George's  sincerity.  Her  fortune 
was  certainly  in  the  way.  What  man  in  such  circum 
stances,  she  asked  herself,  could  be  indifferent  to  the 
prospect  of  such  a  luxurious  independence  as  was  hers 
to  confer  upon  him  she  married?  She  wished  that  some 
concatenation  of  events  might  deprive  her  of  her  wealth 
for  a  time  long  enough  to  admit  of  her  trying  the  great 
experiment,  on  condition  that  it  might  be  restored  to  her 
so  soon  as  the  question  was  decided  in  one  way  or  the 
other.  Nevertheless  she  believed  that  if  she  really 
loved  him,  she  could  forget  to  doubt  the  simplicity  of 
his  affection. 

George,  on  his  part,  was  not  less  sensitive  upon  the 
same  point.  His  hatred  of  all  sordid  considerations  was 
such  that  he  feared  lest  his  intentions  might  be  misin 
terpreted  wherever  there  was  a  question  of  money.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  was  becoming  aware  that  his  inter 
course  with  Constance  Fearing  could  not  continue  much 
longer  upon  its  present  footing.  There  existed  no  pre 
text  of  relationship  to  justify  the  intimacy  that  had 
sprung  out  of  his  visits,  and  even  in  a  society  in  which 
the  greatest  latitude  is  often  allowed  to  young  and  mar 
riageable  women,  his  assiduity  could  not  fail  to  attract 
attention.  The  fact  that  the  two  young  girls  had  a 
companion  in  the  person  of  an  elderly  lady  distantly 
connected  with  them  did  not  materially  help  matters. 
She  was  a  faded,  timid,  retiring  woman  who  was  rarely 
seen,  and  who,  indeed,  took  pains  to  keep  herself  out  of 
the  way  when  there  were  any  visitors,  fearing  always  to 


82  I  Mi:    THKF.K    FATKS. 

intrude  where  she  mijjht  IK. I  In-  wanted.  GfoOKge  lia«l 
seen  her  once  nr  twice  l>ut  uas  convinced  that  shr  ili'l 
not  kii"\v  him  by  slight.  He  knew,  however,  that  his 
frequent  visits  h;ul  IMM-II  the  subject  <»t'  remark  amon^ 
tin-  you  Hi;  girls'  numerous  acquaintance,  tnr  liis  cousin 
Totty  li;ul  told  him  so  with  e\  ident  sat  iM'aet  imi.  and  he 
uuessed  from  Grace's  behaviour,  that  she  at  l.-a-t  would 
!»»•  jjlad  to  see  no  moiv  <>t'  him.  \\'hat  (Iran-  had  t<»ld 
her  sister,  however,  was  strictly  true.  Constance  <-n- 
coiiraired  him.  (icor^c  was  neither  tactless  nor  fatuous, 
and  it  ('mistance  had  shown  that  his  jn-eseiice  was  dis 
tasteful  to  her,  lie  would  have  kej»t  away,  and  cured  him 
self  of  his  half-developed  attachment  as  l»est  lie  could. 

About  this  time  an  incident  occurred  whieh  was  des 
tined  to  produce  a  very  decided  effect  upon  his  life. 
One  afternoon  in  .May  he  was  walking  slowly  down  Fifth 
Avenue  on  his  way  to  \\  a>liin--ton  Square  when  he  sud 
denly  found  himself  face  to  fa« •«•  with  old  Tom  Ciaik. 
who  w;is  at  that  moment  coming  out  of  one  of  the  dubs. 
The  old  man  was  not  as  erect  as  he  had  been  before  his 
illness,  but  he  was  much  less  broken  down  than  (Jeor^e 
had  supposed.  His  keen  eyes  Mill  peered  curiously  into 
the  face  of  every  passer,  and  he  still  set  down  his  stick 
with  a  sharp,  determined  rap  at  every  step.  Before 
George  <-ould  avoid  the  meeting,  as  lie  would  instinct 
ively  have  done  had  there  been  time,  lie  was  conscious  of 
beiu-j  under  his  relation's  iinpiirin^  glance.  He  was  not 
sure  that  the  latter  recognised  him.  but  he  knew  that  a 
.nit ion  was  possible.  l"n«l«-r  the  eireumManee.s  he 
could  not  do  less  than  ^reet  his  lather's  enemy,  who  was 
doubtless  aware  of  his  many  inquiries  during  the  period 
of  dan-cr.  iJenr^e  lifted  his  hat  civilly  and  would  have 
«,n.  but  the  old  -cntlemaii  stopped  him.  to  his 
surprise,  and  held  out  a  thin  hand,  ti^htlx  encase,! 
in  a  st  raw-coloured  glo V6  — -  he  permitted  himself  cer 
tain  exaggerations  of  dros  which  somehow  were  not 
altogether  ineou^runus  in  his  case. 

"  You    are    <ie..rue    \V«md'.'"     he    asked.      Gfaoige    was 


THE   THREE   FATES.  83 

struck  by  the  disagreeable  nature  of  his  voice  and  at  the 
same  time  by  the  speaker's  evident  intention  to  make  it 
sound  pleasantly. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Craik,"  the  young  man  answered,  still  some 
what  confused  by  the  suddenness  of  the  meeting. 

"  I  am  glad  I  have  met  you.  It  was  kind  of  you  to 
ask  after  me  when  I  was  down.  I  thank  you.  It  showed 
a  good  heart." 

Tom  Craik  was  sincere,  and  George  looked  in  vain  for 
the  trace  of  a  sneer  on  the  parchment  that  covered  the 
worn  features,  and  listened  without  detecting  the  least 
modulation  of  irony  in  the  tones  of  the  cracked  voice. 
He  felt  a  sharp  sting  of  remorse  in  his  heart.  What  he 
had  meant  for  something  very  like  an  insult  had  been 
misunderstood,  had  been  kindly  received,  and  now  he  was 
to  be  thanked  for  it. 

"  I  hate  you,  and  I  asked  because  I  wanted  to  be  told 
that  you  were  dead "  —  he  could  not  say  that,  though 
the  words  were  in  his  mind,  and  he  could  almost  hear 
himself  speaking  them.  A  flush  of  shame  rose  to  his  face. 

"It  seemed  natural  to  inquire,"  he  said,  after  a  mo 
ment's  hesitation.  It  had  seemed  very  natural  to  him, 
as  he  remembered. 

"Did  it?  Well,  I  am  glad  it  did,  then.  It  would  not 
have  seemed  so  to  every  young  man  in  your  position. 
Good  day  —  good  day  to  you.  Come  and  see  me  if  you 
care  to." 

Again  the  thin  gloved  hand  grasped  his,  and  George 
was  left  alone  on  the  pavement,  listening  to  the  sharp 
rap  of  the  stick  on  the  stones  as  the  old  man  walked 
rapidly  away.  He  stood  still  for  a  moment,  and  then 
went  on  down  the  Avenue.  The  dry  regular  rapping  of 
that  stick  was  peculiarly  disagreeable  and  he  seemed  to 
hear  it  long  after  he  was  out  of  earshot. 

He  was  very  much  annoyed.  More  than  that,  he  was 
sincerely  distressed.  Could  he  have  guessed  what  had 
been  the  practical  result  of  his  inquiries  during  the  ill 
ness,  he  would  assuredly  have  even  then  turned  and 


>4  Tin     i  m:i:i.    i   \  i  i  -. 

o\ertaken  Tom  (.'raik.  and  would  have  explained  \vitli 
BftVagQ  frankness  that  In-  was  no  friend,  l.ut  a  hitter 
enemy  who  would  have  rejoiced  to  hear  that  death  had 
followed  and  « >\  ertaken  its  victim.  I'.ut  since  he  could 
not  dream  of  what  had  happened,  it  appeared  to  him  that 
any  explanation  would  lie  an  act  of  perfecth  ^ratuiton> 
brutality.  It  wa>  not  likely  that  he  should  meet  the  old 
man  often,  and  there  would  certainly  he  no  necessity  tor 
any  further  exchan-e  of  civilities.  j|,.  MitTered  all  tin- 
more  in  liis  pride  liecanse  he  must  henceforth  accept  the 
credit  of  having  seemed  kindly  disposed. 

Then  he  remembered  how,  at  his  second  meeting  with 
('oiistance  Fearing,  she  had  earnestly  advised  him  not  to 
do  what  had  led  to  the  present  situation.  It  would  have 
been  different  had  hf  known  her  as  he  knew  her  now.  had 
he  loved  her  as  he  undoubtedly  loved  her  to-da\  .  I'.ut 
as  things  had  been  then,  he  hardly  blamed  himself  for 
having  been  roused  to  opposition  by  his  strong  dislike  of 

advice. 

"  I  have  received  the  reward  of  my  iniquities."  he  >aid. 
as  he  sat  down  in  hi>  accustomed  seat  and  looked  at  her 
delieate  face. 

"What  has  happened  to  you'.'"  >he  a>ked.  raising  her 
eyes  with  evident  interest. 

"Something  very  disagreeable.  I ).»  you  like  to  hear 
Confessions?  Ami  when  you  do.  are  you  inclined  to  give 
absolution  to  \«nir  penitents?  " 

"What    i>    it!      What    do  you  want  to  tell  iue7  "      Her 

face  expressed  MUIU-  dneasiness. 

"Do  you  remeiubei-.  when  I  tii-.sl  came  here  —  the 
second  time.  I  >hould  say  —  when  Tom  ('raik  \\  as  in 
such  a  bad  v.ay.  and  I  hoped  he  would  die'.'  You  know,  1 
told  you  I  would  j.(i.  and  leave  a  card  u  ith  inquiries,  al,,| 
\ouad\ised  me  not  to.  I  went  —  in  fact,  I  called  s,-\  eral 

tlllics." 

'•  You  never  told  me.  Why  >hoiild  you1.'  It  uas 
foolish  of  me.  to,,.  It  \\as  none  of  my  business." 

"1   wish   I   had  taken  your   ad\  ice.      The   old    man   got 


THK    THREE    FATES.  SO 

well  again,  but  I  have  not  seen  him  till  to-day.  Just 
now,  as  I  walked  here,  he  was  coming  out  of  his  club, 
and  I  ran  against  him  before  I  knew  where  I  was.  Do 
you  know?  He  had  taken  my  inquiries  seriously. 
Thought  i  asked  out  of  pure  milk  and  water  of  human 
kindness,  so  to  say  —  thanked  me  so  nicely  and  asked 
me  to  go  and  see  him!  I  felt  like  such  a  beast." 

Constance  laughed  and  for  some  reason  or  other  the 
high,  musical  ring  of  her  la-lighter  did  not  give  George 
as  much  satisfaction  as  usual. 

"What  did  you  do?"  she  asked,  a  moment  later. 

"  I  hardly  know.  I  could  not  tell  him  to  his  face  that 
he  had  not  appreciated  my  peculiar  style  of  humour, 
that  I  loathed  him  as  I  loathe  the  plague,  and  that  I 
had  called  to  know  whether  the  undertaker  was  in  the 
house.  I  believe  I  said  something  civil  —  contemptibly 
civil,  considering  the  circumstances  —  and  he  left  me 
in  front  of  the  club  feeling  as  if  I  had  eaten  something 
I  did  not  like.  I  wish  you  had  been  there  to  get  me  out 
of  the  scrape  with  some  more  good  advice !  " 

"I?     Why  should  I - 

"Because,  after  all,  you  got  me  into  it,  Miss  Fearing," 
George  answered  rather  sadly.  "  So,  perhaps,  you  would 
have  known  what  to  do  this  time." 

"I  got  you  into  the  scrape?"  Constance  looked  as 
much  distressed  as  though  it  were  really  all  her  fault. 

"Oh,  no  —  I  am  not  in  earnest,  exactly.  Only,  I 
have  such  an  abominably  contrary  nature  that  I  went  to 
Tom  Craik's  door  just  because  you  advised  me  not  to  — 

that  is  all.  I  had  only  seen  you  twice  then  —  and " 

he  stopped  and  looked  fixedly  at  the  young  girl's  face. 

"  I  knew  I  was  wrong,  even  then,"  Constance  answered, 
with  a  faint  blush.  The  colour  was  not  the  result  of 
any  present  thought,  nor  of  any  suspicion  of  what 
George  was  about  to  say;  it  was  due  to  her  recollection 
of  her  conduct  on  that  long  remembered  afternoon  nearly 
four  months  earlier. 

"  No.  I  ought  to  have  known  that  you  were  right.  If 
you  were  to  give  me  advice  now " 


86  THI:   ri  11:1.1.  FATES. 

"  I  would  rather  imt."  interrupted  the  young  girl. 
"1  would  follow  it,  ii  you  did."  said  <  ieorge.  earnest  h 
"There  is  a  great  difference  bet  ween  t  hat  time  and  t  hi-. " 

"  Is  there'.'  •' 

••  Yes.     Do  you  not  feel  it  V  " 

"I  know  you  better  than  I  did." 

"And  I  know  you  tetter  —  very  much  better."    , 

"I  am  glad  that  makes  you  more  ready  to  follow 
sensible  advice " 

"Your  advice,  Miss  Fearing.     1  did  not  mean ' 

"Mine,  then,  if  you  like  it  better.  I>ut  I  shall  never 
offer  you  any  more.  I  have  offered  you  too  much 
already,  and  I  am  sorry  for  it." 

•  1  would  rather  you  gave  me  advice  —  than  nothing," 
said  George  in  a  lower  voice. 

"What  else  should  I  give  you?"  Her  voice  had  a 
ring  of  surprise  in  it.  She  seemed  startled. 

"What  you  will  never  give,  I  am  afraid — what  I 
have  little  enough  the  right  to  ask." 

Constance  laid  down  the  work  she  held,  and  looked 
out  of  the  window.  There  was  a  strange  expression  in 
her  face,  as  though  she  were  wavering  between  fear  and 
sat  is  fact  ion. 

"Mr.  Wood,"  she  said  suddenly,  "you  are  making  love 
to  me." 

"I  know  I  am.  I  mean  to."  he  answered,  with  an  odd 
roughness,  as  the  light  Hashed  into  his  eyes.  Then,  all 
at  once,  his  voice  softened  \\i>inleri'ullv.  "1  do  it  badlv 
—  forgive  me  —  I  never  did  it  before.  I  should  not  be 
doing  it  now,  if  I  could  help  myself  —  but  1  cannot. 
This  once  —  this  once  only  —  Constance,  I  love  you  with 
all  my  heart." 

He  was  timid,  and  women,  whether  old  or  young,  do 
not  like  timidity.  It  was  not  that  he  lacked  either 
force  or  courage  by  nature,  nor  an\  of  those  qualities 
whereby  women  are  won.  Hut  tin-  life  he  had  led  had 
kept  him  \  oimgrr  than  he  believed  himself  to  be.  and 
hi^  solitary  existence  had  given  his  ideal  ol  Constance 


THE   THREE    FATES.  87 

the  opportunity  of  developing  more  quickly  than  the 
reality.  He  loved  her,  it  is  true,  but  as  yet  in  a  peace 
ful,  unruffled  way,  which  partook  more  of  boundless 
admiration  than  of  passion.  An  older  man  would  have 
recognised  the  difference  in  himself.  The  girl's  finer 
perceptions  were  aware  of  it  without  comprehending  it 
in  the  least.  Nevertheless  it  was  an  immense  satisfac 
tion  to  George  to  speak  out  the  words  which  in  his  heart 
had  so  long  been  written  as  a  motto  about  the  shrine  of 
his  imagination. 

Constance  said  nothing  in  answer,  but  rose,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  and  went  and  stood  before  the  fireplace, 
now  filled  with  ferns  and  plants,  for  the  weather  was 
already  warm.  She  turned  her  back  upon  George  and 
seemed  to  be  looking  at  the  things  that  stood  on  the 
chimney-piece.  George  rose,  too,  and  came  and  stood 
beside  her,  trying  to  see  her  face. 

"  Are  you  angry?  "  he  asked  softly.  "  Have  I  offended 
you?" 

"No,  I  am  not  angry,"  she  answered.  "But  —  but  — 
was  there  any  use  in  saying  it?" 

"  You  do  not  love  me  at  all?  You  do  not  care  whether 
I  come  or  go?" 

She  pitied  him,  for  his  disappointment  was  genuine, 
and  she  knew  that  he  suffered  something,  though  it 
might  not  be  very  much. 

"I  do  not  know  what  love  is,"  she  said  thoughtfully. 

"Yes  —  I  care.     I  like  to  see  you  —  I  am  interested  in 

what  you  do  —  I  should  be  sorry  never  to  see  you  again 

—  but  I  do  not  feel  —  what  is  it  one  should  feel,  when 

one  loves?" 

"  Is  there  any  one  —  any  man  —  whom  you  like  better 
than  you  like  me?" 

"No,"  she  answered  with  some  hesitation,  "I  do  not 
think  there  is." 

"  And  there  is  a  chance  that  you  may  like  me  better 
still  —  that  you  may  some  day  even  love  me?" 

"  Perhaps.  I  cannot  tell.  I  have  not  known  you  very 
long." 


88  Till-:    THKKK    KATI-. 

"It  seems  long  t<»  me —  but  you  give  me  all  I  a>k. 
more  than  I  hail  a  right  to  lioj>e  for.  I  thank  you, 
\vitli  all  my  heart." 

"There  is  little  to  thank  me  for.  Do  you  think  1 
mean  more  than  I  say'/"  She  turned  her  head  and 
looked  calmly  into  his  eyes.  "Do  you  think  I  am 
promising  anything'.' 

"I  would  like  to  think  so.  I'.ut  what  n.uhl  you  prom 
ise  me?  You  would  not  marry  me.  even  it  you  loved  me 
as  I  love  you." 

"You  are  wrong.  If  I  loved  you,  I  would  many  you 
—  if  I  were  sun-  that  your  love  \v;is  real.  too.  \\\\\  it  is 
not.  I  am  sure  it  is  not.  You  make  yourself  think  v«»u 
love  me " 

Tin-  young  man's  dark  lace  seemed  to  grow  darker 
still  as  she  watched  it.  There  was  passion  in  it  now. 
but  of  a  kind  other  than  loving.  His  over  sensitive 
nature  had  already  taken  offence. 

"Please  do  not  go  on,  Miss  Fearing,''  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice  that  trembled  angrily.  "You  have  said  enough 
already." 

Constance  drew  back  in  extreme  surprise,  and  looked 
U  though  she  had  misunderst 1  him. 

"Why  — what  have  I  said?"   she  asked. 

"  You  know  what  you  meant.  You  are  cruel  and 
unjust." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  during  which  Constance 
Deemed  to  }»•  t  ry  i  1 1  g  to  gra>p  the  situation,  while  George 
stood  at  the  other  end  of  the  chimney-piece.  stariir_r  at 
the  pattern  in  tin-  carpet.  Tin-  girl's  fir>t  impulse  «fM 
to  leave  the  rnnni.  for  his  anger  frightened  and  repelled 
her.  P»ut  she  was  too  sensible  f..r  that,  and  she  thought 
she  knew  him  too  well  to  let  such  a  scene  pass  without 
an  explanation.  She  gathered  all  her  courage  and  faced 
a^ain. 

'•  Mi .  \Ynod."  she  said  with  a  firmness  ]„.  had  never 
-ecu  in  her.  "1  give  you  my  word  that  I  meant  nothing 
in  the  least  unkind.  It  is  you  who  are  doing  me  an 


THE    THREE    FATES.  89 

injustice.  I  have  a  right  to  know  what  you  understood 
from  my  words." 

"What  could  you  have  meant?"  he  asked  coldly. 
"  You  are,  I  believe,  very  rich.  Every  one  knows  that 
I  am  very  poor.  You  say  that  I  make  myself  think  I 
love  you " 

"  Good  heavens !  "  cried  Constance.  "  You  do  not 
mean  to  say  that  you  thought  that!  But  I  never  said 
it,  I  never  meant  it  —  I  would  not  think  it " 

There  was  a  little  exaggeration  in  the  last  words.  She 
had  thought  of  it,  and  that  recently,  though  not  when 
she  had  spoken.  It  was  enough,  however.  George 
believed  her,  and  the  cloud  disappeared  from  his  face. 
Tt  was  she  who  took  his  hand  first,  and  the  grasp  was 
almost  affectionate  in  its  warmth. 

"You  will  never  think  that  of  me?"  he  asked  ear 
nestly. 

"  Never  —  forgive  me  if  any  word  of  mine  could  have 
seemed  to  mean  that  I  did." 

"Thank  you,"  he  answered.  "It  is  only  my  own 
folly,  of  course,  and  I  am  the  one  to  be  forgiven. 
Things  may  be  different  some  day." 

"Yes,"  assented  Constance  with  a  little  hesitation, 
"some  day." 

A  moment  later  George  left  the  house,  feeling  as  a 
soldier  does  who  has  been  under  fire  for  the  first  time. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

Not  long  after  the  events  last  chronicled,  the  Fearings 
left  New  York  for  the  summer,  and  George  was  left  to 
his  own  meditations,  to  the  society  of  his  father  and  to 
the  stifling  heat  of  the  great  city.  He  had  seen  Con 
stance  again  more  than  once  before  she  and  her  sister 
had  left  town,  and  he  had  parted  from  her  on  the  best 


',»<>  mi.  THI:I:I:   i  \  EBB. 

of  terms.  To  tell  the  truth.  since  his  sudden  exhibit  ioi 
of  Yiolent  temper,  she  had  liked  him  even  better  ihau 

before.         UlS     genuine     ailgel1     liad     tn    some    extent     dissl- 

pated  the  Cloud  Of  doubt  which  alwa\^  seemed  to  her  to 
hang  about  his  motives.  Tin-  doubt  itself  was  not  gone, 
for  «os  it  htul  a  permanent  cause  in  her  own  fortune  it  \\  a- 
of  the  sort  not  easily  driven  away. 

As  for  George  himself,  he  considered  him>elt 
of  course  in  a  highly  conditional  wa\.  t<»  maii\ 
Constance  Fearing.  She  had  repeated,  at  ln>  urgent 
solicitation,  what  slie  had  said  when  he  had  first  declared 
himself,  to  wit,  that  if  she  ever  loved  him  she  would 
marry  him,  ami  that  then-  was  no  one  whom  she  at 
1 1  resent  preferred  to  him.  More  than  this,  he  could  not 
obtain  from  her.  and  in  his  calm  moments,  which  were 
still  numerous,  lie  admitted  that  she  was  perfectly  tan- 
am!  just  in  her  answer.  He,  on  his  part,  had  declared 
with  great  emphasis  that,  however  she  might  love  him, 
he  would  not  marry  her  until  he  was  independent  of  all 
financial  difficulties,  and  had  made  himself  a  name.  <  Mi 
the  whole,  nothing  could  have  seemed  more  improbable 
than  that  the  marriage  could  ever  take  place.  The 
distance  between  writing  second-rate  reviews  at  ten 

dollars  a  column,    and   l>eing  01 f  the    tew   .successful 

writers  of  the  day  is  really  almost  as  great  as  it  looks  to 
the  merest  outside) .  Moreover,  a  friendship  of  several 
months' standing  i>  ueii.-ralh  speaking  a  l>ad  foundation 
on  which  to  build  hopes  of  love.  The  very  intimacy  of 
intercourse  forbids  those  surprises  in  which  love  chiefly 
delights.  Friendly  hands  have  taken  the  bandage  from 
his  eyes,  and  he  has  learned  to  see  his  way  about  with 
remarkable  acutei ie>^  ..t  perception. 

Perhaps  the  most  immediate  and  perceptible  effect  of 
the  last  few  interviews  with  Constance  was  to  be  found 
in  the  work  he  turned  out,  and  in  the  dissatisfaction  it 
caused  in  quarters  where  it  had  formerly  been  considered 
excellent.  It  was  beginning  to  be  too  good  to  serve  its 
end,  for  the  writer  was  beginning  to  feel  that  he  could 


THE   THREE   FATES.  91 

no  longer  efface  his  individuality  and  repress  his  own 
opinions  as  he  had  formerly  done.  He  exceeded  in  his 
articles  the  prescribed  length,  he  made  vicious  Latin  quo 
tations,  and  concocted  savagely  epigrammatic  sentences, 
he  inserted  sharp  remarks  about  prominent  writers, 
where  they  were  manifestly  beside  the  purpose,  besides 
being  palpably  unjust,  there  was  a  sting  in  almost  every 
paragraph  which  did  not  contain  a  paradox,  and,  alto 
gether,  he  made  the  literary  editors  who  employed  him 
very  nervous. 

"'it  won't  do,  Mr.  Wood,"  one  of  them  said.  "The 
publishers  don't  like  it.  Several  have  written  to  me. 
The  paper  can't  stand  this  kind  of  thing.  I  suppose  the 
fact  is  that  you  are  getting  too  good  for  this  work.  Take 
my  advice.  Either  go  back  to  your  old  style,  or  write 
articles  over  your  own  name  for  the  magazines.  They 
like  quotations  and  snap  and  fine  writing  —  authors  and 
publishers  don't,  not  a  bit." 

"I  have  tried  articles  again  and  again,"  George  an 
swered.  "I  cannot  get  them  printed  anywhere." 

"'Well  —  you  just  go  ahead  and  try  again.  You'll  get 
on  if  you  stick  to  it.  If  you  think  you  can  write  some 
of  your  old  kind  of  notices,  here's  a  lot  of  books  ready. 
But  seriously,  Mr.  Wood,  if  you  write  any  more  like  the 
last  dozen  or  so,  I  can't  take  them.  I'm  sorry,  but  I 
really  can't." 

"  I'll  have  one  more  shot,"  said  George,  desperately,  as 
he  took  up  the  books.  He  could  not  afford  to  lose  the 
wretched  pay  he  got  for  the  work. 

He  soon  saw  that  other  managers  of  literary  depart 
ments  thought  very  much  as  this  first  specimen  did. 

"A  little  more  moderation,  Mr.  Wood,"  said  a  second, 
who  was  an  elderly  aesthetic  personage.  "  I  hate  violence 
in  all  its  forms.  It  is  so  fatiguing." 

"Very  well,"  said  George  submissively. 

He  went  to  another,  the  only  one  whom  he  knew  rather 
intimately,  a  pale,  hardworking,  energetic  young  fellow, 
who  had  got  all  manner  of  distinctions  at  English  and 


02  THE   THREE    FATES. 

<ierman  universities,  who  had  ;i  real  critical  talent,  and 
who  had  ris«-n  <|uickly  to  his  present  position  by  his 
innate  superiority  over  all  competitors  in  his  own  line. 
(Jeorge  liked  him  and  admired  him.  His  pay  was  not 
brilliant,  for  lie  was  not  on  om-  of  the  largest  papers,  \m\ 
he  managed  to  support  his  mother  and  two  yomiur  iistWI 
on  his  earnings. 

"Look  here.  Wood,"  he  said  one  morning,  "this  is  not 
the  way  criticism  is  done.  You  are  not  a  critic  by 
nature.  Some  people  are.  I  believe  I  am.  and  1  always 
meant  to  be  one.  You  do  this  sort  of  thing  just  as  you 
would  do  any  writing  that  did  not  interest  yon,  and  you 
do  it  fairly  well.  he.-aii>.-  you  have  had  a  good  education, 
and  you  know  a  lot  of  things  that  ordinary  people  do  not 
know.  But  it  is  not  your  strong  point,  and  I  do  not 
l>elieve  it  ever  will  be.  Try  something  else.  \Vritc 
an  article." 

"That  is  what  everylxxly  tells  me  to  do,"  George  an 
swered.  He  waa  disappointed,  for  he  believed  that  what 
he  did  was  really  good,  and  he  had  expected  that  the  man 
with  whom  he  was  now  speaking  would  have  been  the 
one  of  all  others  to  appreciate  his  work.  "That  is  what 
they  all  tell  me,'*  he  continued,  "but  they  do  not  tell  me 
how  to  get  my  articles  accepted.  Have  you  a  recipe  for 
that.  .Johnson?  " 

The  pale  young  man  did  not  answer  at  Olice.       He 
extremely  e« mse lent  i« M.S.    which   \vas  one  reason  why  ho 
was  a  good  critic. 

"I  cannot  promise  much,"  he  said  at  la>t.  "lint  I 
will  tell  you  what  I  will  do  for  you.  If  you  will  write 
an  article,  or  a  short,  st»rv  —8aj  live  to  eight  thousand 
words — I  will  read  it  and  give  \  on  my  lionet  opinion. 
It  I  like  it.  I'll  push  it.  and  it  ma\  uret  into  print.  It  I 
don't,  I'll  tell  you  MI.  and  I'll  do  nothing.  You  will 
have  to  tr\  again.  I>ut  I  am  eonvineed  that  you  un 
naturally  an  author  and  not  a  critic." 

"Thank  you."  s;,id  ( ;.•..!-,.  ^rati-fully .  He  knew  what 
the  promise  meant,  from  such  a  man  as  .Johnson,  \vho 


THE   THREE    FATES.  93 

would  have  to  sacrifice  his  time  to  the  reading  of  the 
manuscript,  and  whose  opinion  was  worth  having. 

"Can  you  give  me  any  work  this  week?"  he  asked, 
before  he  took  his  leave. 

Johnson  looked  at  him  quietly,  as  though  making  up 
his  mind  what  to  say. 

"  T  would  rather  not.  You  do  not  do  it  as  well  as  you 
did,  and  I  am  responsible.  If  there  is  anything  else  I 
could  do  for  you "  He  stopped. 

"  If  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  read  my  article 


"Yes,   of  course.      I   said  I  would.     I   mean 


Johnson  looked  away,  and  his  pale  face  blushed  to  the 
roots  of  his  hair.  "  I  mean  —  if  you  should  need  twenty 
dollars  while  the  article  is  being  written,  I  can  — 

George  felt  a  very  peculiar  emotion,  and  his  voice  was 
a  little  thick,  as  he  took  the  other's  hand. 

"  Thank  you,  Johnson,  but  I  don't  need  it.  You  are 
awfully  kind,  though.  Nobody  ever  did  as  much  for  me 
before." 

When  he  left  the  room,  the  nervous  flush  had  not  yet 
disappeared  from  the  literary  editor's  forehead,  nor  had 
the  odd  sensation  quite  subsided  from  George's  own 
throat.  If  Tom  Craik  had  offered  him  the  loan  of  twenty 
dollars,  he  would  have  turned  his  back  on  him  with  a 
bitter  answer.  It  was  a  very  different  matter  when  poor, 
overworked  Johnson  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and 
proffered  all  he  could  spare.  For  a  minute  George  for 
got  all  his  disappointments  and  troubles  in  the  gratitude 
he  felt  to  the  pale  young  man.  Nor  did  he  ever  lose 
remembrance  of  the  kindly  generosity  that  had  prompted 
the  offer. 

But  as  he  walked  slowly  homewards  the  bitterness  of 
his  heart  began  to  show  itself  in  another  direction.  He 
thought  of  the  repeated  admonitions  and  parcels  of  ad 
vice  which  had  been  thrust  upon  him  during  the  last  few 
days,  he  thought  of  his  poverty,  of  his  failures,  and  he 
compared  all  these  facts  with  his  aspirations.  He,  a 
poor  devil  who  seemed  to  be  losing  the  power  to  earn 


94  THE    THREE    FATES. 

a  miserable  ten  dollars  with  his  pen.  In-,  who.-  can-fully 
prepared  articles  had  l>een  rejected  again  and  again,  often 
without  a  word  of  explanation,  lie,  the  unsuccessful  seHh- 
bier  of  second-rate  notices,  had  aspired,  and  did  still 
aspire,  not  only  to  marry  Constance  1-Varing.  but  to  ram 
for  himself  such  a  position  as  should  make  him  inde- 
pendent  of  her  fortune,  so  far  as  money  was  concerned, 
and  which,  in  the  direction  of  personal  reputation,  should 
place  him  in  the  first  rank  in  his  own  country.  Won 
derful  things  happened,  sometimes,  in  the  world  of  let 
ters  ;  but,  so  far  as  he  knew,  they  needed  a  considerable 
time  for  their  accomplishment.  He  was  well  advanced 
in  his  twenty-sixth  year  already,  and  it  was  madness  to 
hope  to  achieve  fame  in  less  than  ten  years  at  the  least. 
In  ten  years,  Const  a  nee  would  be  two  and  thirty.  He 
had  not  thought  of  that  before,  and  the  idea  filled  him 
with  dismay.  It  seemed  a  great  age,  an  absurd  age  for 
marriage.  And,  after  all,  there  was  not  the  slightest 
probability  of  her  waiting  for  him.  In  the  first  place, 
she  did  not  love  him,  or,  at  least,  she  said  that  she  did 
not,  and  if  her  affection  was  not  strong  enough  to  declare 
itself,  it  could  hardly  be  taken  into  consideration  as  an 
element  in  the  great  problem.  The  whole  thing  was 
ridiculous,  and  he  would  give  up  the  idea  —  if  he  could. 
But  lie  could  not.  He  recognised  that  the  thought  of 
Constance  was  the  bright  spot  in  his  life,  and  that  with 
out  her  image  lie  should  lose  half  his  eiier_:\  .  In  the 
beginning,  there  had  been  a  sort  of  complacent  arquirs- 
cence  in  the  growth  of  his  love,  which  made  it  seen)  M 
though  he  had  voluntarily  set  up  an  idol  of  his  own 
chnnsing,  which  he  could  change  at  will.  Hut  the  idol 
had  begun  to  feed  on  his  heart,  and  was  already  exert  in- 
its  mysterious,  dominating  influence  over  his  actions  and 
l*>liefs.  HP  began  to  concoct  a  philosophy  of  self-decep 
tion,  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  :i  good  result.  It  Denied 
.•ertain  that  h»-  could  never  marry  < '«»n>tanee ---  certain. 
at  all  events,  while  this  mood  lasted  —but  he  could  still 
dream  of  her  and  look  forward  to  his  union  with  her. 


THE   THREE    FATES.  95 

The  great  day  would  come,  of  course,  when  she  would 
marry  some  one  else,  and  when  he  should  doubtless  be 
buried  in  the  ruin  of  his  dreams,  but  until  then  he  would 
sustain  the  illusion. 

And  what  an  illusion  it  was!  The  magnitude  of  it 
appalled  him.  Penniless,  almost;  dependent  for  his 
bread  upon  his  ruined  father;  baffled  at  every  turn; 
taught  by  experience  that  he  had  none  of  the  power  he 
seemed  to  feel  —  that  was  the  list  of  his  advantages,  to 
be  set  in  the  balance  against  those  possessed  by  Constance 
Fearing.  George  laughed  bitterly  to  himself  as  he  pur 
sued  his  way  through  the  crowded  streets.  It  struck 
him  that  he  must  be  a  singularly  unlucky  man,  and  he 
wondered  how  men  felt  upon  whom  fortune  smiled  per 
petually,  who  had  never  known  what  it  meant  to  work 
hard  to  earn  a  dollar,  to  whom  money  seemed  as  common 
and  necessary  an  element  as  air.  He  remembered  indeed 
the  time  when,  as  a  boy,  he  had  known  luxury,  and  existed 
in  unbroken  comfort,  and  the  memory  added  a  bitterness 
to  his  present  case.  Nevertheless  he  was  not  down 
hearted.  Black  as  the  world  looked,  he  could  look 
blacker,  he  fancied,  and  make  the  cheeks  of  fortune 
smart  with  the  empty  purse  she  had  tossed  in  his  face. 
His  walk  quickened,  and  his  fingers  itched  for  the  pen. 
He  was  one  of  those  men  who  harden  and  grow  savage 
under  defeat,  reserving  such  luxuries  as  despondency  for 
the  hours  of  success. 

Without  the  slightest  hesitation,  he  set  to  work.  He 
scarcely  knew  how  it  was  that  lie  determined  to  write  an 
article  upon  critics  and  criticism;  but  when  he  sat  down 
to  his  table  the  idea  was  already  present,  and  phrases  of 
direful  import  were  seething  in  the  fire  of  his  brain. 
All  at  once  he  realised  how  he  hated  the  work  he  had 
been  doing,  how  he  loathed  himself  for  doing  it,  how  he 
detested  those  who  had  doled  out  to  him  his  daily  por 
tion.  What  a  royal  satisfaction  it  was  to  "sling  ink,'' 
as  the  reporters  called  it!  To  heap  his  full-stocked 
thesaurus  of  abuse  upon  somebody  and  something,  and 


9t>  THK    1  ill:  I.I.    I    \  I  M, 

nio>t  specially  upon  himself,  in  his  capacity  a>  on.-  of 
the  critics!  To  devote  the  whole  j .,. >i'e» i< >n  to  tin-  p«M" 
dition  of  an  everlasting  contempt,  to  hold  it  up  as  a 
target  for  the  j.ulilic  wrath,  to  spit  upon  it,  to  stamp 
upon  it,  t«>  tear  it  to  rag>.  and  to  scatter  tin-  tatter- 
abroad  upon  tli«-  tempest  ot  his  reprobation!  The  phi 
ran  like  wildtin-  along  tin-  paper,  as  he  warmed  to  his 
work,  and  draped  old-fashioned  anathemas  from  tin- 
closets  of  his  memory  to  s\vtdl  the  hailstorm  of  epithet- 
that  had  fallen  tirM.  Anathema  Maianatha!  I>anm 
critieism!  Damn  the  critics!  Damn  everything! 

It  was  a  very  remarkable  piece  of  work  when  it  was 
finished,  more  remarkable  in  some  ways  than  anything 
lie  ever  produced  afterwards,  and  it  he  had  taken  it  to 
Johnson  in  its  original  form,  the  pale  young  man's  future 
career  might  have  been  endangered  by  a  lit  of  sudden 
and  immoderate  mirth.  Fort  imatt-h .  (ieorge  already 
knew  the  adage  —  is  it  not  Hood's? — which  says  "it  i> 
the  print  that  tells  the  tale."  He  was  well  aware  that 
writing  ink  is  to  printers'  ink  as  a  pencil  drawing  to  a 
painted  canvas,  and  that  what  looks  mild  and  almost 
gentle  when  it  appears  in  an  irregular  handwrit  ing  upon 
a  sheet  of  foolscap  can  seem  startlingly  forcible  when 
impiv.xsed  upon  perfectly  new  and  very  expensive  paper, 
in  perfectly  new  and  very  expensive  type.  He  read  tin- 
article  over. 

"Perhaps  it  i*  a  little  strong."  he  .said  to  him.seli'. 
with  a  grim  >mile.  as  he  re\  iewed  what  he  had  written. 
"  I  feel  a  little  like  Wellington  revisit  in-  Waterloo!" 

Indeed,  from  the  style  of  the  discourse,  one  might 
have  supposed  that  (Jrorgr  had  published  a  do/en  vol 
umes  simultaneously,  and  that  every  crit  ic  inthecuil 
i>'  <1  world  had  sprung  up  and  rent  him  with  one  accord. 
"  Kngli>h  Hards  and  Scotch  Reviewers  "  was  but  milk  and 
water.  v\  ith  very  little  milk,  compared  wit  h  his  onslaught. 
The  dead  lay  in  heaps,  as  it  were,  in  the  track  of  hi> 
destroying  charge,  and  he  had  hanged,  drawn  and  quar 
tered  himself  s.-\«-ral  times  for  his  own  >ati-tactiou, 


THE    THKEE    FATES.  97 

gibbeting  the  quarters  on  every  page.  In  his  fury  and 
unquenchable  thirst  for  vengeance,  he  had  quoted  whole 
passages  from  notices  he  had  written,  only  to  tear  them 
to  pieces  and  make  bonfires  of  their  remains. 

"  I  think  I  had  better  wait  a  day  or  two, "  he  remarked, 
as  he  folded  up  the  manuscript  and  put  it  into  a  drawer 
of  bis  table. 

It  is  characteristic  of  the  profession  and  its  necessities, 
that,  after  having  crushed  and  dismembered  all  critics, 
past,  present  and  to  come,  in  the  most  complete  and 
satisfactory  manner,  George  Wood  laid  his  hand  upon 
the  new  volumes  which  he  had  last  brought  home  and 
proceeded  during  several  days  with  the  task  of  reviewing 
them.  Moreover,  he  did  the  work  much  better  than 
usual,  taking  an  odd  delight  in  affecting  the  attitude  of 
a  gentle  taster,  and  in  using  the  very  language  he  'most 
despised,  just  for  the  sake  of  persuading  himself  that  he 
was  right  in  despising  it.  The  two  editors  who  had 
given  him  work  to  do  that  week  were  surprised  to  find 
that  he  had  returned  with  such  success  to  his  former 
style  of  writing.  They  were  still  further  surprised  when 
an  article  entitled  "Cheap  Criticism77  appeared,  about 
six  weeks  later,  in  a  well  known  magazine,  signed  with 
his  name  in  full.  They  did  not  like  it  all. 

George  had  recast  the  paper  more  than  once,  and  at 
last,  when  he  had  regretfully  "  rinsed  all  the  starch  out 
of  it,77  as  he  said  to  himself,  he  had  taken  it  to  Johnson. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  any  modern  human  being  could 
use  such  violent  language  without  swearing,7'  said  the 
pale  young  man,  catching  a  phrase  here  and  there  as  he 
ran  his  eye  over  the  manuscript. 

"Do  you  call  that  violent?77  asked  George,  delighted 
to  find  that  he  had  left  his  work  more  forcible  than  he 
had  supposed.  ''•  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  first 
copy!  This  looked  like  prayer  and  meditation  compared 
with  it.77 

"If  you  pray  in  that  style,77  remarked  Johnson,  "your 
prayers  will  be  at  least  heard,  if  they  are  not  answered. 


IHK  THKEt   i  A  i  i.- 


They  will  attract  attention  in  .-suiue  .|iiart«'r.  though  per 
haps  not  in  tin*  right  one." 

George's  t;u  •«•  tell. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  too  red-hot?"  he  asked.  M  1  ha\e 
been  spreading  butter  on  the  jnililir  nose  so  long,"  he 
added,  almost  apologetically. 

"Oleomargarine,"  suggested  Johnson.  "It  is  rather 
warm.  That  phrase  —  'revelling  in  the  eontempt  of 
appearing  contemptible'--!  say.  Wood.  that  is  imi 
English,  you  know,  and  it's  a  scorcher,  too." 

"Not  English!  "  exclaimed  (ieorg...  whose  blond  **• 
up  at  once.  "Why  not?" 

"Because  it  is  Volapiick,  or  Malay  —  or  .something 
else,  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  though  I  admit  its  force." 

"I  do  not  see  how  1  can  put  it,  then.  It  is  just  what 
\\e  all  feel." 

"Look  here.  You  do  not  mean  that  your  victim 
despises  himself  for  appearing  to  be  despicable,  do  \«>u  .' 
He  does,  I  dare  say,  but  you  wanted  to  hit  him,  not  to 
show  that  he  is  still  capable  of  human  feeling.  I  think 
you  meant  to  say  that  he  rejoiced  in  his  own  indifl'en  -in  •«• 
to  contempt.'' 

"I  believe  I  did,"  said  George,  relinquishing  the  con 
test  as  soon  as  lie  saw  lie  was  wrong.  "  Hut  'revel'  is 
not  bad.  Let  that  stand,  at  lea>t." 

••  You  cannot  revel  in  inditi'erem-e.  can  yon'.'"  asked 
Johnson  pitih->^l\  . 

"No.  That  is  true.  Butitwafl  Knglish.  all  tin-  same. 
though  it  did  not  mean  what  I  intended." 

"  1  think  not.  You  would  not  say  an  author  appear^ 
green,  would  you'.'  You  would  say  lie  appears  to  be 
green*  Th.-n  whv  sav  that  a  critic  apjiears  eonteinj)- 

tll.leV" 

•'  ^«.u  are  alwa\  >  ri-lit.  J..hii>on."  Crorg*-  ans\\en-d 
\\ith  a  good-natun-d  laugh.  "1  should  have  §6611  tin- 
jnistake  in  the.  pi-oo|.  " 

"  liiit  that  is  the  most  expensive  way  of  seeing  inis- 
1  will  read  this  eareiully.  and  1  will  send  you 
word  to-morrow  what  1  think  oi  it." 


THE    THKEE    FATES.  99 

"What  makes  you  so  quick  at  these  things?1'  asked 
George,  as  he  rose  to  go. 

"  Habit.  I  read  manuscript  novels  for  a  publishing 
house  here.  I  do  it  in  the  evening,  when  I  can  find 
time.  Yes  —  it  is  hard  work,  but  it  is  interesting.  I. 
am  both  prophet  and  historian.  The  book  is  the  reality 
which  I  see  alternately  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
future  and  the  past." 

The  result  was  that  Johnson,  who  possessed  much 
more  real  power  than  George  had  imagined,  wrote  a 
note,  with  which  the  manuscript  was  sent,  and  to 
George's  amazement  the  paper  was  at  once  accepted  and 
put  into  type,  and  the  proofs  were  sent  to  him.  Moreover 
the  number  of  the  magazine  in  which  his  composition 
appeared  was  110  sooner  published  than  he  received  a 
cheque,  of  which  the  amount  at  once  demonstrated  the 
practical  advantages  of  original  writing  as  compared 
with  those  of  second-rate  criticism. 

With  regard  to  the  attention  attracted  by  his  article, 
however,  George  was  bitterly  disappointed.  He  was  on 
the  alert  for  the  daily  papers  in  which  an  account  of 
the  contents  of  the  periodicals  is  generally  given,  and 
he  expected  at  least  a  paragraph  from  each. 

In  the  first  one  he  took  up,  after  an  elaborate  notice 
of  articles  by  known  persons,  he  found  the  following- 
line  :  — 

"  Mr.  George  Winton  Wood  airs  his  views  upon  criti 
cism  in  the  present  number." 

That  was  all.  There  was  not  a  remark,  nor  a  hint  at 
the  contents  of  his  paper,  nothing  to  break  the  icy  irony 
of  the  statement.  He  pondered  long  over  the  words,  and 
then  crammed  the  open  sheet  into  the  waste-paper  basket. 
This  was  the  first.  There  might  be  better  in  store  for 
him.  On  the  evening  of  the  same  day  he  found  another. 

"  An  unknown  writer  has  an  article  upon  criticism," 
said  the  oracle,  without  further  comment. 

This  was,  if  possible,  worse.  George  felt  inclined  to 
write  to  the  editor  and  request  that  his  name  might  be 


100  THh    l  HULL    1-ATKS. 

mentioned.  It  was  a  peculiarly  hard  case,  as  In-  had 
re  vie wed  books  for  tliis  very  paper  during  the  last  two 
years,  and  was  well  known  in  tin-  oilier.  The  third 
remark  was  in  one  of  those  ghaotly-spritely  medley  > 
written  under  the  heading  of  "('hit-Chat." 

"By  the  way,"  inquired  the  reviewer,  "who  is  .Mr. 
George  Winton  Wood?  And  why  is  lit-  so  angry  \\ith 
the  critics?  And  does  anybody  mind/  And  who  is  he, 
any  way?" 

Half  a  dozen  similar  observations  had  the  effect  of 
cooling  George's  hopes  of  fame  very  considerably.  The\ 
probably  did  him  good  by  eradicating  a  ^n-at  deal  ot 
nonsense  from  his  dreams.  He  had  before  imagined 
that  in  labouring  at  his  book  notices  he  had  seen  and 
known  the  dreariest  apartment  in  the  literary  workhouse, 
forgetting  that  all  he  wrote  appeared  anonymously  and 
that  he  himself  was  shielded  behind  the  aegis  of  a  pros 
perous  newspaper's  name.  He  had  not  known  that  a 
beginner  is  generally  received,  to  use  a  French  simile. 
like  a  dog  in  a  game  of  ninepins,  with  kicks  and  t  \.-<  ia 
tions,  unless  he  is  treated  with  the  cold  indifference 
which  is  harder  to  bear  than  any  attack  could  be.  And 
yet,  cruel  as  the  method  seems,  it  is  tin*  best  one  in  most 
cases,  and  saves  the  sufferer  from  far  greater  torment  > 
in  the  future.  AVhat  would  happen  if  every  beginner  in 
literature  were  received  at  the  threshold  with  cake>  and 
ale,  and  were  welcomed  by  a  chorus  of  approving  and 
encouraging  critics?  The  nine  hundred  out  of  every 
thousand  who  try  the  profession  and  fail,  would  tail 
almost  as  certainly  a  little  later  in  their  lives,  and  with 
infinitely  greater  damage  to  their  sensibilit i« •>.  Metre- 
over  the  cakes  and  ale  would  have  been  nnworthih 
wasted,  and  the  chorus  of  critics  would  have  been  neees- 
sarily  larur<-lv  leavened  with  skilful  liar>.  which,  it  i.s  to 
be  hoped  ami  brlieved.  is  not  the  case  in  the  present 
•  ••Midi!  ion  ot  eritici.xm.  in  spite  of  (Ieor-»-  Wood  and  hi> 
Opinions*  I>  it  better  that  bo\  s  should  be  allowed  to 
it-jiiain  in  school  two  or  three  years  \\itlioiit  being  exam- 


THE   THKKE    FATFh-,  \()l 

ined,  and  that  the  ignorant  ones  should  then  be  put  to 
shame  before  their  comrades?  Or  is  it  better  that  the 
half-witted  should  be  excluded  from  the  first,  and  sepa 
rately  taught?  The  question  answers  itself.  We  who, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  have  fought  our  way  into  public 
notice,  have  all,  at  one  time  or  another,  been  made  to 
run  the  gauntlet  of  abuse,  or  to  swim  the  dead  sea  of 
indifference.  The  public  knows  little  of  our  lives.  It 
remembers  the  first  book  of  which  everybody  talked  and 
which,  it  foolishly  supposed,  represented  our  first 
experiment  in  print.  It  knows  nothing  of  the  many 
years  of  thankless  labour  in  the  columns  of  the  daily 
press,  it  has  never  heard  of  our  first  paper  in  a  maga 
zine,  nor  of  our  pride  at  seeing  our  signature  in  a  peri 
odical  of  some  repute,  nor  of  the  sovereign  contempt 
with  which  the  article  and  the  name  were  received.  The 
comfortable  public  has  never  dreamed  of  the  wretched 
prices  most  of  us  received  when  we  entered  the  ranks, 
and,  to  be  honest,  there  is  no  reason  why  it  should.  It 
would  be  quite  as  sensible  to  found  a  society  for  the 
purpose  of  condoling  with  school-boys  during  their  exam 
inations,  as  to  excite  the  public  sympathy  on  behalf  of 
what  one  may  call  undergraduate  authors.  The  weed 
ing  at  the  beginning  keeps  the  garden  clean  and  gay  — 
and  amputations  must  be  performed  in  good  time,  if  the 
gangrene  is  to  be  arrested  effectually. 

George  Wood,  as  has  been  said  before,  was  not  of  the 
kind  to  be  despondent,  though  he  was  easily  roused  to 
anger.  The  porcupine  is  an  animal  known  to  literature, 
as  well  as  a  beast  of  the  field,  and  the  quills  of  the 
literary  porcupine  can  be  very  easily  made  to  stand  on 
end.  George  was  one  of  the  species  and,  on  the  whole, 
a  very  favourable  specimen.  Fortunately  for  those  who 
had  accorded  so  little  appreciation  to  his  early  efforts, 
he  was  at  that  time  imprisoned  in  the  enclosure  appro 
priated  to  unknown  persons.  He  bristled  unseen  and 
wasted  his  wrath  on  the  desert  air.  He  had  looked 
forward  to  the  publication  of  his  first  article,  as  to  an 


1<J*J  '-HI-      »  HKhl.     I   A  1  I  >. 

emancipation 'from  slavery,  whereas  he  soon  discovered 
that  he  liad  only  been  advanced  to  a  higher  rank  in 

.servitude.  That  is  what  must  mm  find  out  when  the\ 
have  looked  forward  to  emancipation  of  any  kind,  and 
wake  up  to  find  that  in.Mead  ol  being  chained  to  one  side 
<•!'  the  wall.  they  an-  chained  to  the  other. 

George  supposed  that  it  would  now  be  an  eatiei  matti-j- 
to  get  some  of  his  former  work  into  print.  He  had  four 
or  five  things  in  very  tolerable  >hape,  resting  in  a 
drawer  where  he  had  put  them  when  last  rejected.  He 
got  them  out  again,  and  again  began  to  send  them  to 
periodicals,  without  consult  in-  his  friend  Johnson.  To 
his  surprise,  they  were  all  returned  without  comment. 

••do  and  ask  for  a  job,"  said  .Johnson,  the  omniscient, 
when  he  heard  of  the  failure.  "Suggestion  on  the  part 
of  the  editor  is  the  better  part  of  valour  in  the  writer." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  (ieor^e.  He  had  sup 
posed  that  there  was  nothing  he  did  not  know  in  this 
connection. 

''They  won't  take  articles  on  general  subjects  without 
a  deal  of  interest  and  urging/'  answered  the  other. 
"Get  introduced  to  them  in  person.  I  will  do  it  with 
most  of  them.  Then  go  to  them  and  ,sa\.  •  I  am  a  \en 
remarkable  young  man,  though  you  do  not  seem  to  know 
it.  I  will  write  anything  about  an\ thing  in  the  earth 
or  under  the  earth.  Sanskrit,  botany  and  the  differential 
calciilu>  are  my  especially  strong  points,  but  the  Xorth 
Pole  lias  great  attractions  for  me.  I  am  Mnmg  in  the 
ology  and  political  economy,  and,  if  an\  thing.  1  would 
rather  spi-nd  a  \ear  in  writing  up  the  Fiji  I>laiid>  than 
not.  If  you  have  nothing  in  this  line,  there  i>  miiMc 
and  high  art.  in  which  I  am  sound.  1  have  a  taste  for 
architecture  and  1  underhand  practical  lobstri-tishiiig. 
Have  you  anything  for  me  to  do1.''  That  i>  the  \\a\ 
to  talk  to  the*e  men."  Johnson  added  with  a  smile. 
"Try  it" 

<  teorge  laughed. 

"But  that  is  not  literature."  he  objected. 


THE   THREE    FATES.  103 

"Not '  literature?  Everything  that  can  be  written 
about  is  literature,  just  as  everything  that  can  be  eaten 
is  man  —  in  another  form.  You  can  learn  as  much  Eng 
lish  in  writing  up  lobster-fishing,,  as  in  trying  to  compose 
a  five-act  tragedy,  and  you  will  be  paid  for  it  into  the 
bargain.  Besides,  if  you  are  ever  going  to  write  any 
thing  worth  reading,  you  must  see  more  and  think  less. 
Don't  read  books  for  awhile;  read  things  and  people. 
Thinking  too  much,  without  seeing,  is  like  eating  too 
much  —  it  makes  your  writing  bilious." 

"This  is  the  critic's  recipe  for  acquiring  fame  in  let 
ters  ! "  exclaimed  George. 

"Fame  in  letters  is  a  sort  of  stuffed  bugbear.  You 
can  frighten  children  with  it,  but  it  belongs  to  the  days 
of  witches  and  hobgoblins.  The  object  of  literature  now 
adays  is  to  amuse  without  doing  harm.  If  you  do  that 
well  you  will  be  famous  and  rich." 

"You  are  utterly  cynical  to-day,  Johnson.  Are  you 
in  earnest  in  what  you  advise  me  to  do?" 

"Perfectly.  Try  everything.  Offer  your  services  to 
write  anything.  Among  all  the  magazines  and  weeklies 
there  is  sure  to  be  one  that  is  in  difficulties  because  it 
cannot  get  some  particular  article  written.  Don't  be  too 
quick  to  say  you  understand  the  subject,  if  you  don't. 
Say  you  will  try  it.  A  man  may  get  up  almost  any  sub 
ject  in  six  weeks,  and  it  is  a  good  thing  for  the  mind, 
once  in  a  long  time.  Try  everything,  I  say.  Make  a 
stir.  Let  these  people  see  you  —  make  them  see  you.  if 
they  don't  want  to.  It  is  not  time  lost.  You  can  use 
them  all  in  your  books  some  day.  There  is  an  age  when  it 
is  better  to  wear  out  shoe-leather  than  pens  —  when  the 
sweat  of  the  brow  is  worth  a  dozen  bottles  of  ink.  Don't 
sit  over  your  desk  yelping  your  discontent,  while  your 
real  brain  is  rusting.  Confound  it  all !  It  is  the  will 
that  does  it,  the  stir,  the  energy,  the  beating  at  other 
people's  doors,  grinding  up  their  stairs,  making  them 
feel  that  they  must  not  lose  the  chance  of  using  a  man 
who  can  do  so  much,  making  them  ashamed  to  send  you 


104  THE   THREE    FATES. 

away.  Do  you  think  I  got  to  In-  \\  here  I  am  without  a 
rough  and  tumble  tight  at  tin-  first?  Take  everything 
that  comes  into  \  our  way,  do  it  as  well  as  yon  know  how, 
with  all  your  mi^ht.  and  keep  up  a  constant  howl  for 
more.  They  will  respect  you  in  spite  of  themselves." 

The  pale  young  man's  steel-blue  eyes  Hashed,  the 
purple  veins  stood  out  on  his  white  dem-hed  hands  and 
there  was  a  smile  of  triumph  in  his  face  and  a  ring  of 
victory  in  his  voice.  He  had  fought  them  all  and  had 
got  what  he  wanted,  by  talent,  by  industry,  but  above  all 
by  his  restless  and  untiring  energy,  and  he  was  proud 
of  it. 

To  George  Wood,  in  his  poverty,  it  seemed  very  little, 
after  all.  to  be  the  literary  editor  of  a  daily  paper.  That 
was  not  the  position  he  must  win,  if  he  would  marry 
Constance  Fearing. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

The  summer  passed  quickly  away  without  bringing 
any  new  element  into  ( it-urge's  life.  He  did  not  reject 
Johnson's  advice,  hut  he  did  not  follow  it  to  the  letter. 
His  instinct  was  against  the  method  suggested  by  his 
friend,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  not  the  assurance  to  fol 
low  it  out.  He  was  to«»  sensitive  and  proud  to  employ 
his  courage  iu  besieging  persons  who  did  not  want  him. 
Nevertheless  he  found  work  to  do.  and  his  position  \\as 
improved,  though  his  writings  still  failed  to  attract  anv 
attention.  He  had  imagined  that  there  was  l»iit  a  step 
from  tin-  composition  of  maga/im-  articles  to  the  making 
of  a  Ixx.k.  lint  he  soon  discovered  the  fallacy  of  the  idea, 
and  almost  regretted  the  old  days  of  "boolHastmg." 

Meanwhile,  his  thoughts  dwelt  much  on  Constance, 
and  he  adorned  the  temple  of  his  idol  with  everything 
upon  which,  figuratively  .speaking,  lie  could  lay  liis 
hands.  Strange  to  say,  her  absence  during  the  summer 


THE    THREE    FATES.  105 

was  a  relief  to  him.  It  made  the  weakness  of  his  posi 
tion  and  the  futility  of  his  hopes  seem  less  apparent,  and 
it  gave  him  time  to  make  at  least  a  step  in  the  direction 
of  success.  He  wrote  to  her,  as  often  as  he  dared,  and 
twice  in  the  course  of  the  summer  she  answered  with 
short  letters  that  had  in  his  eyes  a  suspicious  savour  of 
kindness  rather  than  of  anything  even  distantly  ap 
proaching  to  affection.  Nevertheless  those  were  great 
days  in  his  calendar  on  which  these  missives  came.  The 
notes  were  read  over  every  morning  and  evening  until 
Constance  returned,  and  were  put  in  a  place  of  safety 
during  the  day  and  night. 

George  looked  forward  with  the  greatest  anxiety  to 
Miss  Fearing's  return.  He  had  long  felt  that  her  sister's 
antagonism  was  one  of  the  numerous  and  apparently  in 
surmountable  obstacles  that  barred  his  path,  a,nd  he 
dreaded  lest  Grace's  influence  should,  in  the  course  of 
the  long  summer,  so  work  upon  Constance's  mind  as  to 
break  the  slender  thread  that  bound  her  to  him.  As 
regards  Grace's  intention  he  was  by  no  means  wrong. 
She  lost  no  opportunity  of  explaining  to  Constance  that 
her  friendship  for  George  Wood  was  little  short  of  ridic 
ulous,  that  the  man  knew  he  had  no  future  and  was  in 
pursuit  of  nothing  but  money,  that  his  writings  showed 
that  he  belonged  to  the  poorest  class  of  amateurs,  that 
men  who  were  to  succeed  were  always  heard  of  from  boy 
hood,  at  school,  at  college  and  in  their  first  efforts  and 
that  Constance  was  allowing  her  good  nature  to  get  the 
better  of  her  common-sense  in  encouraging  such  a  fellow. 
In  short  there  was  very  little  that  Grace  left  unsaid.  But 
though  George  had  foreseen  all  this,  as  Grace,  on  her 
part,  had  determined  beforehand  upon  her  course  of 
action  during  the  summer,  neither  Grace  nor  George  had 
understood  the  effect  that  such  talk  would  produce  upon 
her  whom  it  was  meant  to  influence.  There  was  in  Con 
stance's  apparently  gentle  nature  an  element  of  quiet 
resistance  which,  in  reality,  it  was  not  hard  to  rouse. 
Like  many  very  good  and  very  conscientious  people,  she 


106  THE   THREE    FATES. 

detested  advice  and  abominated  interference,  eren  «»n  the 
part  of  those  she  loved  best.  Her  attachment  for  her 
slater  was  sincere  in  its  way,  though  not  very  strong. 
and  it  did  not  extend  to  a  blind  respect  tor  Grace's  npin- 
ions.  Grace  could  be  wrong,  likr  other  people.  ;m<l  Grace 
was  hasty  and  hot-tempered,  prejudiced  and  not  tree 
from  a  certain  sort  of  false  pride.  These  were  assuredly 
not  the  defects  of  Constance's  character,  at  least  in  her 
own  opinion. 

Her  opposition  was  aroused  and  she  began  to  show  it. 
Indeed,  her  two  letters  to  George  were  both  written  im 
mediately  after  conversations  had  taken  place  in  which 
Grace  had  spoken  of  him  with  more  than  usual  bitter 
ness.  She  felt  as  though  she  owed  him  some  reparation 
for  the  ill-treatment  he  got  at  her  sister's  hands,  and  this 
accounted  in  part  for  the  flavour  of  kindness  which 
George  detected  in  her  words.  The  situation  was  further 
strained  by  the  arrival  of  one  of  the  periodicals  which 
contained  an  article  by  him.  The  sisters  both  read  it. 
and  Constance  was  pleased  with  it.  In  an  indirect  way. 
too,  she  felt  flattered,  for  it  looked  as  though  George 
were  beginning  to  follow  her  advice. 

"It  is  trash,'1  said  Grace  authoritatively,  as  she  threw 
the  maga/.ine  aside. 

Constance  allowed  a  full  minute  to  elapse  before  >h»- 
answered,  during  which  she  seemed  to  be  intently  watch 
ing  the  sail  of  a  boat  that  was  slowly  working  its  way  up 
the  river.  The  two  girls  had  paused  between  one  visit 
and  another  to  rest  themselves  in  a  place  they  owned 
upon  the  Hudson.  The  weather  was  intensely  hot,  and 
it  was  towards  evening. 

"It  is  not  trash."  said  ('(instance  tjiiictly.  "  You  are 
quite  mistaken.  You  are  completely  blinded  by  your 
prejudice." 

Grace  was  very  much  surprised,  tor  it  was  unlike  Con- 
stanee  to  turn  upon  her  in  such  a  wa\  . 

"I  think  it  is  trash  for  two  reasons."  she  said,  with  a 
short  laugh.  "  First,  because  my  judgment  tells  me  it 


THE    THREE    FATES.  107 

is,  -and  secondly  because  I  know  that  George  Wood  could 
not  possibly  write  anything  else." 

"  You  can  hardly  deny  that  you  are  prejudiced  after 
that  speech.  Do  you  know  what  you  will  do,  if  you  go 
on  in  this  way?  You  will  make  me  fall  in  love  with 
Mr.  Wood  and  marry  him,  out  of  sheer  contrariety." 

U0h  no!"  laughed  Grace.  "You  would  not  marry 
him.  At  the  last  minute  you  would  throw  him  over, 
and  then  he  would  bring  an  action  against  you  for  breach 
of  promise  with  a  view  to  the  damages." 

Constance  suddenly  grew  very  pale.  She  turned  from 
the  window  where  she  was  standing,  crossed  the  small 
room  and  stood  still  before  her  sister. 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  she  asked  very  coldly. 

Grace  was  frightened,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
but  she  did  her  best  to  hide  it. 

"  What  difference  does  it  make  to  you,  whether  I  mean 
it  or  not?  "  she  inquired  with  a  rather  scornful  smile. 

"This  difference  —  that  if  you  think  such  things,  you 
and  I  may  as  well  part  company  before  we  quarrel  any 
further." 

"  Ah  —  you  love  him,  then?  I  did  not  know. "  Grace 
laughed  nervously. 

"I  do  not  love  him,  but  if  I  did  I  should  not  be 
ashamed  to  say  so  to  you  or  to  the  whole  world.  Rut  I 
like  him  very,  very  much,  and  I  will  not  hear  him  talked 
of  as  you  talk  of  him.  Do  you  understand?  " 

"Perfectly.  Nothing  could  be  clearer,"  said  Grace 
with  a  contemptuous  curl  of  the  lip. 

"Then  I  hope  you  will  remember,"  Constance  an 
swered. 

Grace  did  remember.  Indeed,  for  some  time  she 
could  think  of  nothing  else.  It  seemed  clear  enough  to 
her  that  something  more  than  friendship  was  needed  to 
account  for  the  emotion  she  had  seen  in  her  sister's  face. 
It  was  the  first  time  in  her  recollection,  too,  that  Con 
stance  had  ever  been  really  angry,  and  Grace  was  not 
inclined  to  rouse  her  anger  a  second  time.  She  changed 


108  THE   THREE    FAT!> 

her  tactics  ami  ignored  George  Wood  altogether,  never 
mentioning  him  nor  reading  anything  that  he  sent  to 
Constance.  But  this  mode  of  treating  the  question 
proved  unsatisfactory,  for  it  was  clear  that  Wood  wrote 
ntt  en,  and  there  was  nothing  to  prove  that  Constance 
did  not  answer  all  his  letters.  Fortunately  the  two 
sisters  were  rarely  alone  together  during  the  rest  of  the 
summer,  and  their  opportunities  of  disagreeing  were  not 
numerous.  They  were  not  in  reality  as  fond  of  each  other 
as  the  world  thought,  or  as  they  appeared  to  be.  Their 
natures  were  too  different .  and  at  the  same  time  the 
difference  was  not  of  that  kind  in  which  each  character 
seems  to  fill  a  want  in  the  other.  On  the  contrary  the 
points  in  which  they  were  unlike  were  precisely  those 
which  most  irritated  the  other's  sensibilities.  They  had 
never  before  quarrelled  nor  IM-.-II  so  near  to  a  quarrel  as 
they  were  in  the  course  of  the  conversation  just  recorded, 
but  they  were  in  reality  very  tar  from  l>eing  harmonious. 

The  devoted  affection  of  their  mother  had  kept  them 
together  while  she  had  lived,  and,  to  some  extent,  had 
survived  her,  the  memory  of  her  still  exercising  a 
Mn>ng  influence  over  both.  Constance,  too,  was  natur 
ally  very  pacific,  and  rarely  resented  anything  Grace 
siid,  in  jest  or  in  earnest.  Grace  was  often  annoyed  by 
what  she  called  her  sister's  sweetness,  and  it  was  that 
very  quality  which  prevented  the  other  from  retaliating. 
Sin  had  now  shown  that  she  could  turn,  and  fiercely,  if 
once  aroused,  and  Grace  respected  her  the  more  for  hav 
ing  shown  that  she  had  a  temper. 

Enough  has  been  said  to  show  that  George's  fear  that. 
Constance  would  think  less  well  of  him  through  Grace's 
influence,  was  without  toundatimi.  Sin-  even  went  so 
far  as  to  send  for  him  as  soon  M  she  returned  to  New 
York  in  the  autumn.  It  wa>  a  -trailer  meeting,  for 
there  was  constraint  on  both  sides,  and  at  the  same  time 
each  felt  the  necessity  of  showing  the  other  that  no 
change  had  taken  place  for  the  worse  in  their  mutual 
relations. 


THE   THREE   FATES.  109 

Constance  was  surprised  to  find  how  very  favourably 
George  Wood  compared  with  the  men  she  had  seen  dur 
ing  the  summer  —  men  all  more  or  less  alike  in  her  eyes, 
but  nevertheless  representing  in  her  imagination  the 
general  type  of  what  the  gentleman  is  supposed  to  be, 
the  type  of  the  man  of  her  own  class,  the  mate  of  her 
own  species.  Grace  had  talked  so  much,  in  the  early 
part  of  the  season,  of  George's  inferior  social  position, 
of  his  awkward  manner,  and,  generally,  of  his  defects, 
that  Constance  had  almost  feared  to  find  that  she  had 
been  deceived  at  first  and  that  there  was  a  little  truth 
in  her  sister's  words.  One  glance,  one  phrase  of  his, 
sufficed  to  set  her  mind  at  rest.  He  might  have  pecu 
liarities,  but  they  were  not  apparent  in  his  way  of  dress 
ing,  of  entering  a  room  or  of  pronouncing  the  English 
language.  He  was  emphatically  what  he  ought  to  be, 
and  she  felt  a  keen  pleasure  in  taking  up  her  intercourse 
with  him  at  the  point  where  it  had  been  interrupted 
more  than  four  months  earlier. 

And  now  the  exigencies  of  this  history  require  that 
we  should  pass  rapidly  over  the  period  that  followed. 
It  was  an  uneventful  time  for  all  concerned.  George 
Wood  worked  witli  all  his  might  and  produced  some 
very  creditable  papers  on  a  variety  of  subjects,  gradually 
attracting  a  certain  amount  of  notice  to  himself,  and 
advancing,  as  he  supposed,  as  fast  as  was  possible  in  his 
career.  Success,  of  the  kind  he  craved,  still  seemed 
very  far  away  in  the  dim  future,  though  there  were  not 
wanting  those  who  believed  that  he  might  not  wait  long 
for  it.  Foremost  among  those  was  Constance  Fearing. 
To  her  there  was  a  vast  difference  between  the  anony 
mous  scribbler  of  small  notices  whom  she  had  known  a 
year  ago,  and  the  promising  young  writer  who  appeared 
to  her  to  have  a  reputation  already,  because  most  of  her 
friends  now  knew  who  he  was,  had  read  one  or  more  of 
his  articles  and  were  glad  to  meet  him  when  occasion 
offered.  She  felt  indeed  that  he  had  not  yet  found  out 
his  best  talent,  but  her  instinct  told  her  that  the  time 


110  THE    THREE    FATES. 

could  not  be  very  distant  when  it  would  luv;ik  out  of  its 
own  impulse  and  surprise  tin*  world  by  its  brilliancy. 
That  In-  actually  possessed  great  and  rare  gifts  she  no 
longer  doubted. 

Next  to  Constance,  the  Sherrington  Trinmis  were  the 
loudest  in  their  praise  of  George's  doings.  Totty  could 
talk  of  nothing  else  when  she  came  to  the  house  in 
Washington  Square,  and  her  husband  never  failed  to 
read  everything  (Jeorge  wrote,  and  to  pat  him  on  the 
back  after  each  fresh  effort.  Kven  Geoxge'fl  lather  !»•- 
gan  to  relent  and  to  believe  that  there  might  be  some 
thing  in  literature  alter  all.  Hut  he  showed  very  little 
enthusiasm  until,  one  day.  an  old  aet|uaintanee  with 
whom  he  had  not  spoken  for  years,  crossed  the  street 
and  shook  hands  with  him,  congratulated  him  upon  his 
boy's  "'doing  so  well."  Then  .lonah  \Yood  felt  that  the 
load  of  anxiety  he  had  borne  for  so  many  years  was  sud 
denly  lifted  from  his  shoulders.  People  thought  his  boy 
was  " doing  well  '*!  He  had  not  hoped  to  be  told  th;it 
spontaneously  by  any  one  for  years  to  come.  The 
dreary  look  began  to  lade  out  of  his  grey  lace.  gi\  in- 
way  to  something  that  looked  very  like  happim-—. 

George  himself  was  the  lea>t  appreciative  of  his  own 
ntOCett.  Kven  .lolmsou,  who  was  sparing  of  praise  in 
general,  wrote  occasional  notes  in  his  paper  expressive 
of  his  >at  inaction  at  his  friend's  work  and  generally 
containing  x»me  bit  of  delicate  criticism  or  learned 
reference  that  lent  them  weight  and  caused  them  to  I.. 
reprinted  into  other  newspapers. 

So  the  winter  came  and  went  again  and  the  month  of 
May  came  nnmd  oner  more.  (Jeorge  was  with  Con- 
,-tance  one  afternoon  almoM  exactly  a  \ear  from  the  d:t\ 
on  which  he  had  tirst  told  her  of  his  love.  Their  rela 
tions  had  been  \ery  peaceful  and  pleasant  of  late,  though 
George  wa>  not  so  often  alone  with  her  as  in  former 
times.  The  period  of  mourning  f<>r  the  girls'  mother 
was  past  and  many  people  came  to  the  house.  (Joorge 
himself  had  gradually  made  numerous  acipia  intances  and 


THE  THREE   FATES.  Ill 

led  a  more  social  life  than  formerly,  finding  interest,  as 
Johnson  had  predicted,  in  watching  people  instead  of 
poring  over  books.  He  was  asked  to  dinner  by  many 
persons  who  had  known  his  father  and  were  anxious  to 
make  amends  for  having  judged  him  unjustly,  and  when 
they  had  once  received  him  into  their  houses,  they  liked 
him  and  did  what  they  could  to  show  it.  Moreover  he 
was  modest  and  reticent  in  regard  to  himself  and  talked 
well  of  current  topics.  Insensibly  he  had  begun  to 
acquire  social  popularity  and  to  forget  much  of  his 
boyish  cynicism.  He  fancied  that  he  went  into  society 
merely  because  it  sometimes  gave  him  an  opportunity  of 
meeting  Constance,  but  he  was  too  natural  and  young 
not  to  like  it  for  itself. 

"Shall  we  not  go  out?"  he  asked,  when  he  found  her 
alone  in  the  drawing-room. 

Constance  looked  up  and  smiled,  as  though  she  under 
stood  his  thought.  He  was  afraid  that  Grace  would 
enter  the  room  and  spoil  his  visit,  as  had  happened  more 
than  once,  and  Constance  feared  the  same  thing.  Neither 
had  ever  said  as  much  to  the  other,  but  there  was  a  tacit 
understanding  between  them,  and  their  intimacy  had 
developed  so  far  that  Constance  made  no  secret  of  wish 
ing  to  be  alone  with  him  when  he  came  to  the  house. 
She  smiled  in  spite  of  herself  and  George  smiled  in 
return. 

"Yes.  We  can  take  a  turn  in  the  Square,"  she  said. 
"It  will  be  —  cooler,  you  know."  A  soft  laugh  seemed 
to  explain  the  hesitation,  and  George  felt  very  happy. 

A  few  minutes  later  they  were  walking  side  by  side 
under  the  great  trees.  Instinctively  they  kept  away 
from  the  Fear  ings'  house  —  Grace  might  chance  to  be  at 
the  window. 

"  It  was  almost  a  year  ago, "  said  George,  suddenly. 

"What?" 

"That  I  told  you  I  loved  you.  You  think  differently 
of  me  now,  do  you  not?  " 

"'A  little  differently,  perhaps,"  Constance  answered. 


ll'J  TI1K    Till:  1. 1.    I    \  I  I  > 

Then,  feeling  that  she  was  Mushing.  >ln-  turned  her  laee 
away  and  spoke  rapidly.  u  Yes  and  no.  I  think  more 
of  you  —  that  is  to  say,  I  think  better  of  you.  You 
have  done  so  much  in  this  year.  I  begin  to  see  that  you 
are  more  ener^et  ie  tlian  I  fancied  you  were." 

"Does  it  seem  to  you  as  though  what  I  have  don.-  has 
brought  us  any  nearer  together,  you  and  me'.'" 

"Nearer?  Perhaps.  I  do  not  ipiite  see  h.,\v  \ou 
mean."  The  blush  had  disappeared,  and  she  looked 
puzzled. 

"  I  mean  because  I  have  begun  —  only  begun  —  to  make 
something  like  a  position  for  myself.  It  I  succeed  1 
hope  we  shall  seem  nearer  yet — nearer  and  nearer,  till 
there  shall  be  no  parting  at  all.'' 

"I  think  you  mistake  a  letter  in  the  word  —  you  talk 
as  though  you  meant  dearer,  more  than  nearer  —  do  you 
not?  "  Constance  laughed,  and  blushed  again. 

"If  I  said  that  you  were  making  love  to  me  — to-day, 
as  you  said  a  year  ago  —  would  you  answer  that  you 
meant  it  —  as  I  did?" 

''What  impertinence!"  exclaimed  Constance  still 
laughing  lightly. 

"  No  —  but  would  you?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  what  I  should  do,  if  you  said  anything 
so  outrageous!  " 

"  I  love  you.     Is  that  outrageous  and  impertinent '.' " 

"N — o.  You  say  it  very  nicely  —  almost  too  nicely. 
I  am  afraid  you  have  said  it  before." 

"Often,  though  I  cannot  expect  you  to  remember  the 

•  xaet  number  of  repetitions.      How  would  yon  say  it  — 
if  you  were  obliged  to  say  it '.'     I  have  a  good  ear  foi    a 
tune.      I  could  learn  your  music." 

" Could  you '.' "  Constance  hesitated  while  they  paused 
in  their  walk  and  (Jror-v  looked  into  II.M  eyes. 

She  WW  x-metliini:  there  that  had  not  l.e.-n  present 
when  he  had  tirst  .spoken,  a  year  ago.  He  had  seemed 

•  •old    then,    eren   to    her    inexperience.      Now    there    was 
lioth    passion   and   tenderness    in  his  look,  and  there  was 
sadness  in  hi>  face. 


THE    THREE    FATES.  113 

"You  do  love  me  now,"  she  said  softly.  "1  can  see 
it.'1 

"And  you,  dear  —  will  you  not  say  the  little  words?" 

Again  she  hesitated.  Then  she  put  out  her  hand  and 
touched  his  very  gently.  "I  hate  you,  sir,"  she  said. 
But  she  pronounced  the  syllables  with  infinite  softness 
and  delicacy,  and  the  music  of  her  voice  could  not  have 
been  more  sweet  if  she  had  said  "I  love  you,  dear." 
Then  she  laughed  again. 

"  I  could  hear  you  say  that  very  often,  without  being 
hurt,"  said  George  tenderly. 

"  I  only  wanted  to  show  you  how  I  should  say  those 
other  words  —  if  I  would, "  she  answered. 

"Is  that  all?  Well  —  if  there  is  a  just  proportion 
between  your  hatred  and  your  love  and  your  way  of 
expressing  them,  your  love  must  be "  he  stopped. 

"Must  be  what?" 

"  As  great  as  mine.  I  cannot  find  anything  stronger 
than  that  to  say  —  nor  could  you,  if  you  knew. ' 

"  So  you  love  me,  then.  I  wonder  how  long  it  will 
last?  When  did  it  begin?" 

"The  second  time  I  saw  you." 

"Love  at  second  sight!  How  romantic  —  so  much 
more  original  than  at  first  sight,  and  so  much  more 
natural.  Xo  —  you  must  not  take  my  hand  —  there  are 
people  over  there  —  and  besides,  there  is  no  reason  why 
you  should.  I  told  you  I  hated  you.  There  —  walk 
like  a  sensible  being  and  talk  about  your  work!  " 

"You  are  a  strange  creature,  Constance." 

"Am  I?  Why  do  you  call  me  Constance?  I  do  not 
call  you  George  —  indeed  I  do  not  like  the  name  at  all." 

"  Nor  I,  if  you  do  not  —  you  can  call  me  Constantine 
if  you  like.  That  name  would  be  more  like  yours." 

"  I  do  not  like  my  own.  It  makes  me  think  of  the 
odiously  good  little  girls  in  story  books.  Besides,  what 
is  it?  Why  am  I  called  Constance?  Is  it  for  the  town 
in  Switzerland?  I  was  never  there.  Is  it  for  the  virtue 
I  least  possess?" 


114  im-.ru  i;i:h   i  A  i  i.>. 

"As  your  sister   is  railed   Grace,"   <uggexted   George. 

"Hush!  Grace  is  a  very  graceful  girl.  Take  it  in 
that  way,  and  leave  her  alone.  Am  I  tin-  Knglish  for 
Constantia?  Come,  give  ine  an  explanation!  Talk! 
Say  Something]  You  are  leaving  the  burden  of  the  con 
versation  to  me.  and  then  you  are  not  even  listening!  " 

"I  was  thinking  of  you  —  I  always  am.  What  shall 
I  talk  about?  You  are  the  only  subject  on  which  1 
could  be  at  all  eloquent.'' 

"  You  might  talk  about  yourself,  for  a  change,"  sug 
gested  Constance. 

"  But  you  say  you  hate  me,  so  that  you  would  not  find 
an  account  of  me  agreeable,  would  you?'' 

"  I  think  my  hatred  could  be  made  very  accommodat 
ing,  if  you  would  talk  pleasantly  —  even  about  yourself .'' 

"I  would  rather  make  love  to  you  than  talk." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  would,  but  that  is  just  what  I  do 
nut  want  you  to  do.  Besides,  you  have  done  it  before  — 
without  any  result." 

"That  is  no  reason  for  not  trying  again,  is  it?  " 

"Why  try  it  at  all?'' 

"Love  is  its  own  reason,"  said  George,  "and  it  is  the 
reason  for  most  other  things  as  well.  I  love  you  and  1 
am  not  in  search  of  reasons.  I  love  you  very,  very  much, 
witli  all  my  heart  —  so  much  that  1  do  not  know  how  to 

>ay  it.     My  life  is  full  of  you.     You  are  everywhere, 

\  mi  are  always  with  me.  In  everything  I  have  done 
since  I  have  known  you  I  have  thought  ot  you.  I  have 
a->ked  myself  whether  this  would  please  you.  whether 
that  would  bring  a  smile  to  your  dear  face,  whether  these 
words  or  those  would  speak  to  your  heart  and  be  sweet 
to  you.  You  are  everything  tin-  world  hohU  I'm-  me.  the 
Min  that  shines,  the  air  I  breathe.  Without  the  thought 
•  •I  you  I  could  neither  think  nor  work.  It  a  man  can 
grow  great  by  the  thought  <>\  woman's  love.  \  mi  can 
make  me  one  of  the  greatest  —  if  men  die  of  broken  hearts 
\  on  can  kill  me  —  you  are  everything  to  me  —  life,  breath 
and  happi: 


THE    THREW    FATES.  115 

Constance  was  silent.  He  spoke  passionately,  and 
there  was  an  accent  of  truth  in  his  low,  vibrating  voice, 
that  went  to  her  heart.  For  one  moment  she  almost  felt 
that  she  loved  him  in  return,  as  she  had  often  dreamed 
of  loving.  That  he  was  even  now  more  to  her  than  any 
living  being,  she  knew  already. 

"You  like  me,"  he  said  presently.  "  You  like  me,  you 
are  fond  of  me,  you  have  often  told  me  that  I  am  your 
best  friend,  the  one  of  whom  you  think  most.  You  let 
me  come  when  I  will,  you  let  me  say  all  that  is  in  my 
heart  to  say,  you  let  me  tell  you  that  I  love  you " 

"It  is  very  sweet  to  hear,"  said  Constance  softly. 

"And  it  is  sweet  to  say  as  well  —  dearest.  Ah,  Con 
stance,  say  it  once,  say  that  it  is  more  than  friendship, 
more  than  liking,  more  than  fondness  that  you  feel. 
What  can  it  cost  you  to  say  it?  " 

"Would  it  make  you  very  happy?  " 

"It  would  make  this  world  heaven." 

Constance  stopped  in  her  walk,  drew  back  a  little  from 
his  side,  and  looked  at  him. 

"I  will  say  it,"  she  said  quietly.  "  I  love  you  —  yes,  I 
do.  Xo  —  do  not  start  —  it  is  not  much  to  hear,  you  must 
not  be  too  hopeful.  I  will  tell  you  the  truth  —  so,  as  we 
stand  —  no  nearer.  It  is  not  friendship  nor  fondness,  nor 
mere  liking.  It  is  love,  but  it  is  not  what  it  should  be. 
Do  you  know  why  I  tell  you?  Because  I  care  too  much 
for  your  respect  to  let  you  think  I  am  a  miserable  flirt, 
to  let  you  think  that  I  am  encouraging  you  and  drawing 
you  on,  without  having  the  least  heart  in  the  matter. 
You  must  think  me  very  conscientious.  Perhaps  I  am. 
Yes,  I  have  encouraged  you,  I  have  drawn  you  on, 
because  I  like  to  hear  you  say  what  you  so  often  say  of 
late,  that  you  love  me.  It  is  very  sweet  to  hear,  as  I 
told  you  just  now.  And,  do  you  know?  I  wish  I  could 
say  the  same  things  to  you,  and  feel  them.  But  I  do  not 
love  you  enough,  I  am  not  sure  of  my  love,  it  is  greater 
to-day  and  less  to-morrow,  and  I  will  not  give  you  little 
where  you  give  me  so  much.  You  know  my  secret  now. 


lit)  THK   THl:i.l.    l-  \  I  I .-. 

You  may  hope,  if  you  will.  I  am  not  deceiving  yon.  I 
may  love  you  more  and  more,  and  tin-  day  when  1  led 
that  it  is  all  strong  and  true  and  whole  and  sound  and 
unchangeable  1  will  marry  you.  Hut  I  will  not  promise. 
I  will  not  run  tin-  risk  so  long  as  I  feel  that  my  love  may 
turn  again  into  friendship  next  week —  or  next  year.  Do 
you  see?  Have  you  understood  me?  Is  it  all  clear  now'.'  " 

"I  understand  your  words.  dear,  hut  not  your  heart. 
I  thank  you ' 

"No.  Do  not  thank  me.  Come,  let  us  walk  on,  slowly. 
Do  you  know  that  it  has  been  the  same  with  yon,  though 
you  will  not  admit  it .'  You  did  not  love  me  a  year  ago, 
as  you  do  now.  did  you?  " 

"  Xo.  That  was  impossible.  I  love  you  more  and  more 
every  day,  every  week,  every  month." 

"  A  year  ago  it  would  have  been  quite  possible  for  you 
to  have  forgotten  me  and  loved  some  other  woman.  Yon 
did  not  look  at  me  as  you  do  now.  Your  voice  had  not 
the  same  ring  in  it." 

"I  daresay  not  —  I  have  changed.     I  can  feel  it." 

"  Yes,  and  it  is  because  I  have  watched  you  changing 
in  one  way,  that  I  am  afraid  I  may  change  in  the  other." 

<  ieorge  was  very  much  surprised  and  at  the  same  time 
was  made  very  happy  by  what  she  had  told  him.  He 
had  indeed  suspeeted  the  truth,  and  it  was  not  enough  to 
have  heard  her  say  the  words  UI  love  you  "  in  the  calm 
and  reasoning  tone  she  had  used.  But  on  the  other 
hand,  there  was  something  brilliantly  honest  about  her 
confession,  that  tilled  him  with  hope  and  delight.  li  a 
woman  so  true  once  loved  with  all  her  heart,  she  would 
love  longer  al,d  better  and  more  truly  than  other  women 
can.  So  at  h-;i-t  thought  (ieorge  Wood,  as  he  walked  by 
her  side  beneath  the  trees  in  Washington  Square,  and 
glanced  from  time  to  time  at  her  lovely  blushing  face. 

"I  thank  you.  dear,  with  all  my  heart."  he  said  alter 
a  long  pan>e. 

"  There  is  little  enough  to  thank  me  tor.  It  aeemi  to 
me  that  1  could  not  have  done  less.  Would  it  lia\»  l»een 


THE    THREE   FATES.  117 

honest  and  right  to  let  things  go  on  as  they  were  going 
without  an  explanation?" 

"Perhaps  not.  But  most  women  would  have  done 
nothing.  I  understand  you  better  no\v,  I  think  —  if  a 
man  can  ever  understand  a  woman  at  all.'" 

"I  do  not  understand  myself,"  Constance  answered 
thoughtfully.  "Promise  me  one  thing,"  she  added, 
looking  up  quickly  into  his  face. 

"Anything  in  the  world, "  he  said. 

"Anything?  Then  promise  me  that  what  I  have  said 
to-day  shall  make  no  difference  in  the  way  we  meet,  and 
that  you  will  behave  just  as  you  did  before." 

"Indeed  I  will.  What  difference  could  it  make?  I  do 
not  see." 

"Well,  it  might.  Kemember  that  we  are  not  engaged 
to  be  married " 

"  Oh,  that?  Of  course  not.  I  am  engaged  to  you,  but 
you  are  not  engaged  to  me.  Is  that  it?  " 

"Better  not  think  of  any  engagement  at  all.  It  can 
do  no  good.  Love  me  if  you  will,  but  do  not  consider 
yourself  bound." 

"  If  you  will  tell  me  how  I  can  love  you  without  feel 
ing  bound  to  you,  perhaps  I  will  try  and  obey  your  com 
mands.  It  must  be  a  very  complicated  thing. "  George 
laughed  happily. 

"Well,  do  as  you  will,"  said  Constance.  "Only  be 
honest  with  me,  as  I  have  been  with  you.  If  a  time 
comes  when  you  feel  that  you  love  me  less,  tell  me  so 
frankly,  and  let  there  be  an  end.  Will  you?" 

"Yes.     I  am  not  afraid.     The  day  will  never  come." 

"Never  is  thought  to  be  an  old-fashioned  word,  I  be 
lieve  —  like  always.  Will  you  do  something  else  to  please 
me  —  something  to  pay  me  for  my  honesty?" 

"  Anything  —  everything. " 

"  Write  a  book,  then.     It  is  time  you  did  it. " 

George  did  not  answer  at  once.  There  was  nothing 
which  he  really  wished  more  to  accomplish  than  what 
Constance  asked  of  him,  and  yet,  in  spite  of  years  of  lit- 


118  i  it  i.    i  HI:LL    i  A  i  i.>. 

entry  work  and  endless  pr.-pa  rat  i<»n.  there  was  nothing 
for  which  lie  really  felt  himself  le»s  fitted.  Hi-  was 
conscious  that  fragments  of  novels  were  r<»n>t;nttly  tloat 
ing  through  his  brain  and  that  seem-*  formed  themselves 
and  conversations  arranged  themselves  spontaneously  in 
liis  mind  when  he  least  expected  it:  In  it  everything  vrafl 
vague  and  unsettled,  he  had  neither  plot  nor  plan. 
neither  the  persons  of  the  drama  nor  the  scene  of  their 
action,  neither  beginning  nor  continuation,  nor  end.  To 
promise  to  write  a  book  now,  this  very  year,  seemed 
like  madness.  And  yet  he  was  beginning  to  tear  le.st 
he  should  put  off  the  task  until  it  .slum Id  be  too  late. 
He  was  in  his  twenty-seventh  year,  and  in  his  own 
estimation  was  approaching  perilously  near  to  thin  \ . 

"Why  do  you  ask  me  to  do  it  now?"  he  inquired. 

"Because  it  is  time,  and  because  if  you  go  on  mueh 
longer  with  these  short,  things  you  will  never  do  any 
thing  else." 

"  I  only  do  it  as  a  preparation,  as  a  step.  Honestly,  I 
do  not  feel  that  I  know  enough  to  write  a  good  book,  and 
I  should  be  sorry  to  write  a  bad  one." 

"Never  mind.  Make  a  beginning.  It  can  do  no  harm 
to  try.  You  have  written  a  great  deal  lately  and  \  ou 
can  leave  the  magazines  alone  for  a  while.  Shall  1  tell 
you  what  I  would  like?  " 

"Yes  — what?" 

••  I  would  like  you  to  write  your  book  and  bring  the 
chapters  as  you  write  them,  and  read  them  to  me  one  by 
one." 

"  Would  you  really  like  that?  " 

"  Indeed    I    Would." 

"Then  I  will  do  it.  I  mean  that  I  will  try,  for  1  am 
sure  I  eann«»t  succeed.  But  —  you  did  n«»t  think  ot  that 
—  where  can  we  read  without  being  interrupted'.'  I  «!«• 
not  propose  t<»  give  your  sister  the  benefit ' 

"In  Central  Park — on  tine  days.  There  are  .juiet 
plaee>  there." 

"Will  \«'ii  go  there  with  me  alone'.'"  (M-.UV  .i^k.-d  in 
some 


THE   THREE   FATES.  119 

"Yes.     Why  not?     Have  I  not  told  you  that  I  love 
you  —  a  little." 

"I  bless  you  for  it,  dear,"  said  George. 
And  so  they  parted. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

George  felt  like  a  man  who  has  committed  himself  to 
take  part  in  some  public  competition  although  not  prop 
erly  prepared  for  the  contest,  and  during  the  night  that 
succeeded  his  last  meeting  with  Constance  he  slept 
little.  He  had  promised  to  write  a  book.  That  was 
bad  enough,  considering  that  he  felt  so  little  fitted  for 
the  task.  But,  at  least,  if  he  had  undertaken  to  finish 
the  work,  revise  it  and  polish  it  and  eliminate  all  the 
errors  he  could  discover  before  bringing  it  to  Miss  Fear 
ing  in  its  final  shape,  he  could  have  comforted  himself 
with  the  thought  that  the  first  follies  he  committed  would 
be  known  only  to  himself.  He  had  promised,  however, 
to  read  the  chapters  to  Constance  as  he  wrote  them,  one 
by  one,  and  the  thought  filled  him  with  dismay.  The 
charming  prospect  of  numberless  meetings  with  her  was 
marred  by  the  fear  of  being  ridiculous  in  her  eyes.  It 
was  for  her  alone  that  the  book  was  to  be  written.  It 
would  be  a  failure  and  he  would  not  even  attempt  to 
publish  it,  but  the  certainty  that  the  public  would  not 
witness  his  discomfiture  brought  no  consolation  with  it. 
Better  a  thousand  times  to  be  laughed  at  by  the  critics 
than  to  see  a  pained  look  of  disappointment  in  Con 
stance's  eyes.  Nevertheless  he  considered  his  promise 
sacred,  and,  after  all,  it  was  Constance  who  had  driven 
him  to  make  it.  He  had  protested  his  incapacity  as 
well  as  he  could.  She  would  see  that  he  had  been  right 
and  would  acknowledge  the  wisdom  of  waiting  a  little 
longer  before  making  the  great  attempt. 

At  first,  he  felt  as  though  he  were  in  a  nightmare,  in 


120  TIM.    TUKKF.    FATES. 

a  dim  labyrinth  from  which  lie  had  pledged  himself  to 
find  an  escape  in  a  given  time.  His  nerves,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  played  him  false.  He  grew  suddenly 
hot,  and  then  as  suddenly  cold  again.  Attempting  to 
fix  his  imagination,  monstrous  faces  presented  them 
selves  before  his  eyes  in  the  dark,  and  he  heard  frag 
ments  of  conversation  in  which  there  were  long  sentences 
that  meant  nothing.  He  lit  a  candle  and  sat,  np  in  lied, 
clasping  his  forehead  with  his  long,  smooth  fingers,  and 
beginning  to  feel  that  he  knew  what  despair  reallv 
meant. 

This  then  was  the  result  of  years  of  preparation,  of 
patient  practice  with  the  pen.  of  thoughtful  reading  and 
careful  study.  He  had  always  felt  that  he  lacked  the 
imagination  necessary  for  producing  a  novel,  and  now 
he  felt  sure  of  it.  Johnson  had  told  him  that  he  was  no 
critic,  and  he  had  believed  Johnson,  because  Johnson 
was  himself  the  best  critic  he  knew.  What  then  wafl 
he?  A  writer  of  short  papers  and  articles.  Yes.  he 
could  do  that.  How  easily  now.  at  this  very  moment, 
could  he  think  of  half  a  do/en  subjects  for  such  work. 
and  how  neatly  he  could  put  them  into  shape,  develop 
them  in  a  certain  number  of  pages  and  polish  them  to 
the  proper  degree  of  brilliancy  ! 

The  morning  dawned  and  found  him  still  searching 
and  beating  hi>  brain  for  a  subject.  As  the  light 
increased  he  felt  more  and  more  nervous.  It  was  not 
in  his  nature  to  put  off  the  beginning  upon  which  he 
had  determined,  and  lie  knew  that  on  that  day  he  must 
write  tin-  first  words  of  his  first  book,  or  forfeit  his  self- 
respect  tor  ever.  There  was  an  eminently  comic  side  to 
the  situation,  but  he  could  not  >ec  it.  His  dread  of 
being  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  the  woman  he  loved  was 
great  enough  to  keep  him  from  contemplating  tin- 
absurdity  of  his  case.  His  sensations  became  intolera 
ble:  lie  felt  like  a  doomed  man  await  ing  his  execution, 
whose  only  chance  of  a  reprieve  lay  in  inventing  a  plot 
for  a  novel.  He  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  he  got  out 


THE   THREE   FATES.  121 

of  bed  and  opened  his  window.  The  fresh  air  of  the 
May  morning  rushed  in  and  suddenly  filled  the  room 
with  sweetness  and  his  excited  brain  with  a  new  sense 
of  possibilities.  He  sat  down  at  his  table  without 
thinking  of  dressing  himself,  and  took  up  his  pen.  A 
sheet  of  paper  lay  ready  before  him,  and  the  ha,bit  of 
writing  was  strong  in  itself  —  too  strong  to  be  resisted. 
In  a  few  minutes  that  white  sheet  would  be  covered  with 
words  that  would  mean  something,  and  those  words 
would  be  the  beginning  of  his  book,  of  the  novel  he  was 
about  to  write  but  of  the  contents  of  which  he  had  not 
the  remotest  conception.  This  was  not  the  way  he  had 
anticipated  .the  commencement  of  the  work  that  was  to 
lay  the  first  stone  of  his  reputation.  He  had  fancied 
himself  sitting  down  to  that  first  page,  calm  and  col 
lected,  armed  with  a  plot  already  thoroughly  elaborated, 
charmed  beforehand  with  the  characters  of  his  own 
invention,  carried  away  from  the  first  by  the  spirit  of 
the  action,  cheered  at  every  page  by  the  certainty  of 
success,  because  failure  was  to  have  been  excluded  by 
the  multiplicity  of  his  precautions.  And  here  he  was, 
Avithout  an  idea  in  his  brain  or  the  least  subject  for  an 
excuse,  beginning  a  romance  which  was  to  be  judged 
step  by  step  by  the  person  of  all  others  most  dear  to 
him. 

George  dipped  his  pen  into  the  ink  a  second  time  and 
then  glanced  at  the  calendar.  It  was  the  fifth  of  May. 

"Well,"  he  said  aloud,  "there  is  luck  in  odd  numbers. 
Here  goes  my  first  novel!  " 

And  thereupon,  to  his  own  great  surprise,  he  began 
writing  rapidly.  He  did  not  know  what  was  coming,  he 
hardly  knew  whether  his  hero  had  black  hair  or  brown, 
and  as  for  the  heroine,  he  had  not  thought  of  her  at  all. 
But  the  hero  was  himself  and  was  passing  a  night  of  great 
anxiety  and  distress  in  a  small  room,  in  a  small  house,  in 
the  city  of  New  York.  The  reason  of  his  anxiety  and  dis 
tress  was  a  profound  secret  as  yet,  because  George  had 
not  invented  it,  but  there  was  no  difficulty  in  depicting 


1*22  THE    THREE    FATES. 

his  stiit.-  «>f  umul.  Tin*  writer  had  just  spent  that  v»-ry 
niglit  himself.  ;iinl  was  describing  it  while  the  sun  \\a- 
yet  scarcely  risen.  He  chuckled  viciously  as  he  drove 
his  pen  along  the  lines  and  wrote  out  the  ready  phrases 
that  rushed  into  his  brain.  It  was  inexpressibly  comic 
to  be  gi\  ing  all  tin*  details  of  his  herd's  suffering  with 
out  having  the  smallest  idea  of  wliat  caused  it;  but,  as 
he  went  on,  he  found  that  his  silence  upon  this  impor 
tant  point  was  lending  an  uncanny  air  ot  mystery  to  his 
h'rst  chapter,  and  his  own  interest  \\a>  unexpectedly 
an -used. 

It  seemed  strange,  too,  to  find  himself  at  liberty  to 
devote  as  much  space  as  he  pleased  to  the  elaboration  of 
details  that  attracted  his  attention,  and  to  feel  that  he 
was  not  limited  in  space  as  he  had  hitherto  been  in  all 
he  wrote.  <  >f  course,  when  he  stopped  to  think  of  what 
he  was  to  do  next,  he  was  as  much  convinced  as  ever 
that  nothing  could  come  of  his  attempt  beyond  this  first 
chapter.  The  whole  affair  was  like  a  sort  of  trial  gallop 
over  the  paper,  and  doubtless  when  he  read  over  what  he 
had  written  he  would  be  convinced  nf  its  worthb-ssness. 

He  remembered  lu->  tii-^t  fiery  article  upon  the  critics. 

and  the  wholesale  cutting  and  pruning  it  had  required 
In-fore  he  could  even  submit  it  to  .Johnson.  Then,  how 
ever,  he  had  written  under  the  influence  of  anger;  now. 
he  was  con>cious  of  a  new  pleasure  in  every  sentence, 
his  idea.s  eanie  .smoothly  t,,  the  surface  and  his  own 
language  had  a  freshness  which  he  did  not  recognise. 
In  old  times  lie  had  studied  the  manner  of  great  writers 
in  the  attempt  to  improve  his  own.  and  his  style  had 
been  subject  to  violent  attacks  of  Carlyle  and  to  lucid 
intervals  »\  Macaulay.  lie  had  worshipped  at  Kiiskufs 
exquisite  .shrine  and  had  offered  incen.se  in  Lander's 
(•lassie  temple,  he  had  eaten  nf  Thackera\  's  salt  and  had 
drunk  long  draughts  timn  Mickeiis's  h>\  ing-cup.  Perhaps 
each  had  produced  its  effect,  but  now  he  was  no  longer 
MO8010I1I  of  receiving  influence  from  any  of  them.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  himself,  for  better,  for 


THE   THREE   FATES.  123 

worse,  to  fail  or  to  succeed.  His  soul  and  his  conscious 
ness  expanded  together  in  a  new  and  intoxicating  life, 
as  he  struck  those  first  reckless  strokes  in  the  delicious 
waters  of  the  unknown. 

He  forgot  everything,  dress,  breakfast,  his  father,  the 
time  of  day  and  the  time  of  year,  and  when  he  rose  from 
his  seat  he  had  written  the  first  chapter  of  his  novel. 
For  some  occult  reason  he  had  stopped  suddenly  and 
dropped  his  pen.  He  knew  instinctively  that  he  had 
reached  his  first  halting-place,  and  he  paused  for  breath, 
left  the  table  and  went  to  the  window.  To  his  astonish 
ment  the  sun  was  already  casting  shadows  in  the  little 
brick  yard,  and  he  knew  that  it  must  be  past  noon.  He 
looked  at  himself  and  saw  that  he  was  not  dressed,  then 
he  looked  at  his  watch  and  found  that  it  was  one  o'clock. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes,  for  it  had  all  been  like  a  dream, 
like  a  vision  of  fairyland,  like  a  night  spent  at  the  play. 
On  the  table  lay  many  pages  of  closely- written  matter, 
numbered  and  neatly  put  together  by  sheer  force  of 
habit.  He  hardly  knew  what  they  contained,  and  he 
was  quite  unable  to  recall  the  words  that  opened  the 
first  paragraph.  But  he  knew  the  last  sentence  by  heart, 
for  it  was  still  ringing  in  his  brain,  and  strange  to  say, 
he  knew  what  was  to  come  next,  though  he  seemed  not 
to  have  known  it  so  long  as  he  held  his  pen.  While  he 
dressed  himself  the  whole  book,  confused  in  its  details 
but  clear  in  its  general  outline,  presented  itself  to  his 
contemplation,  and  he  knew  that  he  should  write  it  as 
he  saw  it.  It  would  assuredly  not  be  a  good  novel,  it 
would  never  be  published,  and  he  was  wasting  his  time, 
but  it  would  be  a  book,  and  he  should  keep  his  promise 
to  Constance.  He  went  downstairs  and  found  his  father 
at  luncheon,  with  a  newspaper  beside  him. 

"Well,  George,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "I  thought 
you  were  never  going  to  get  up. " 

"  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  have  been  to  bed, "  answered 
the  young  man.  "But  I  know  that  I  have  been  writing 
since  it  was  daylight  and.  have  had  no  breakfast." 


124  THK    THKKK    FATES 

"That  i>  a  bad  way  of  beginning  the  day,"  sai«l  .lonah 
\\(M>d.  shaking  his  head.  "You  will  derange  your 
dii:esti«.M  by  these  haliits.  It  is  idle  to  try  such  cxperi- 
inents  on  the  human  frame." 

"It  was  quit*'  an  unwilling  experiment.  I  forgot  all 
alxmt  eating.  I  had  some  work  that  had  to  he  done  and 
so  I  put  it  through." 

''More  articles?"  inquired  his  father  with  kindly 
interest. 

"I  believe  I  am  writing  a  book,"  said  George,  "It 
is  a  new  sensation  and  very  exhilarating.  l»it  1  cannot 
tell  you  anything  about  it  till  1  have  got  on  with  it 
further." 

'  .V  book,  eh?  Well.  1  wish  you  success.  George.  I 
hope  you  are  well  prepared  and  that  you  will  do  nothing 
hasty  or  ill  considered." 

"No,  indeed!  "  exclaimed  George  with  a  laugh. 

Hasty  and  ill  considered!  Could  any  two  epithets 
better  describe  the  way  in  which  he  had  gone  t«>  \\«>ik  ' 
What  rubbish  it  would  be  when  it  was  finished.  In- 
thought,  as  he  attacked  the  cold  meat  and  pickh-.s.  II* 
realised  that  he  was  desperately  hungry,  and  unaccount 
ably  gay  considering  that  he  anticipated  a  total  failure, 
and  it  wa>  .surprising  that  while  he  believed  that  he  had 
been  produeinvr  tra.sh  lie  should  l»e  in  such  a  hurry  to 
finish  his  meal  in  order  to  produce  more.  Nothing, 

however,   .seemed  t«>  be  of  the  .sli^'llteM    i  111  ]  .oil  a  lice,    except 

t<>  write  as  fast  as  he  eould   in   order  to   have  plenty  of 
manuscript  to  read  to  (-(instance  at  the  first  opportunity. 
That  ni-ht  before  going  to  l>ed  he  sat  down  in  a  com 
fortable   chair,    lit   a   pipe  and   read    over   what   lie  had 

written.  It  unit  be  very  poor  >tuff.  <»t  comae,  he  con 
sidered,  because  he  had  turned  it  out  so  quickly;  but  he 
experienced  one  of  the  ^ivat  pleasures  of  his  life  in 
reading  it  over.  The  phra^e>  xi-nt.  thrills  of  satisfaction 
through  him  and  his  hand  trembled  as  he  took  up  one 
sheet  ;itter  another.  It  was  strange  that  he  should  be 
able  to  take  such  delight  in  what  mu>t  manifestly  be  So 


THE   THREE    FATES.  125 

had.  But,  bad  or  not,  the  thing  was  alive,  and  the 
characters  were  his  companions,  whispering  in  his  ear 
the  words  that  they  were  to  speak,  and  bringing  with 
them  their  individual  atmospheres,  while  a  sort  of 
secondary  and  almost  unconscious  imagination  performed 
the  scene-shifting  in  a  smooth  and  masterly  fashion. 

Three  days  later,  he  sat  beside  Constance  Fearing  upon 
a  wooden  bench  in  a  retired  nook  in  Central  Park.  The 
weather  was  gloriously  beautiful,  and  the  whole  world 
smelt  of  violets  and  sunshine.  Everything  was  fresh 
and  peaceful,  and  the  stillness  was  broken  only  by  the 
voices  of  laughing  children  who  played  together  a  hun 
dred  yards  away  from  where  the  pair  were  sitting. 

"  And  now,  begin, "  said  Constance  eagerly,  as  George 
produced  his  folded  manuscript. 

"It  i&  horrible  stuff,"  he  said.  "I  had  really  much 
rather  not  read  it." 

"Shall  I  go  away?" 

"No." 

"Then  read!" 

A  great  wave  of  timidity  came  over  the  young  man  in 
that  moment.  He  could  not  account  for  it,  for  he  had 
often  read  to  Constance  the  manuscript  of  his  short 
articles.  But  this  seemed  very  different.  He  let  the 
folded  sheets  rest  on  his  knee,  and  gazed  into  the  dis 
tance,  seeing  nothing  and  wishing  that  he  might  sink 
through  the  earth  into  his  own  room.  To  judge  from 
the  sensation  in  his  throat,  he  would  not  be  able  to  read 
at  all.  Then  all  at  once,  he  grew  cold.  He  had  under 
taken  to  do  this  thing  and  he  must  carry  it  through,  come 
what  might.  Constance  would  not  laugh  at  him,  and  she 
would  be  just.  He  wished  that  she  were  Johnson,  for  it 
would  be  easier. 

"I  am  waiting,"  she  said  with  a  gentle  smile.  George 
laughed. 

"  I  never  was  so  frightened  in  my  life, "  he  said.  "  I 
know  what  stage  fright  is,  now." 

Constance  looked  at  him,  and  she  liked  his  timidity 


126  THK    THK1.1.    I  A  II-. 

more  than  >ln-  had  otten  liked  his  boldness.  She  folt 
tliat  she  loved  him  a  little  nmiv  than  before.  Her  voice 
\va>  very  soft  when  she  --poke. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  me.  dear?  "  she  asked. 

The  blood  caiue  to  George's  face.  It  was  tin-  tir>t 
time  she  had  ever  used  an  endearing  expression  in 
speaking  to  him. 

"Not  since  you  have  said  that,"  he  answered,  opening 
the  sheets. 

He  read  the  first  chapter,  and  she  did  net  interrupt 
him.  Occasionally  he  glanced  at  her  ta< •»-.  It  was  very 
grave  and  thoughtful,  and  he  could  not  guess  what  was 
passing  in  her  mind. 

"That  is  the  end  of  the  first  chapter."  he  said  at  last. 
"  Do  you  like  it?  " 

"Go  on!  "  she  exclaimed  quickly  without  heeding  his 
question. 

George  did  as  he  was  bidden  and  read  on  to  the  end  of 
what  he  had  brought.  Whatever  Constance  might  think 
of  the  work,  she  was  evidently  anxious  to  hear  it.  and 
this  fact  at  least  gave  him  a  little  courage.  When  In- 
had  finished,  he  folded  up  the  sheets  quickly  and  returned 
them  to  his  pocket,  without  looking  at  his  companion's 
face.  He  did  not  dare  ask  her  again  for  her  opinion  and 
lie  waited  t<>r  her  t<»  >peak.  Hut  she  said  nothing  and 
leaned  back  in  her  seat,  apparently  eontemplat  ing  the 

trees. 

•  Would  you  like  to  walk  a  little?"  (ieorge  asked  in 
an  unsteady  voice.  He  now  took  it  for  granted  that  she 
was  not  pleased. 

"Do  you  want  to  know  what.  I  think  of  your  three 
chapters?" 

"  Yes,  please,"  he  answered  nervously. 

"They  are  very,  very  good.  They  are  as  much  better 
than  anything  you  have  ever  done  before.  as  champagne 
is  better  than  .soda-water." 

"  Not  realh  !  "  <  ieorge  exclaimed  in  genuine  and  over 
whelming  snrpri  <•.  "  You  are  not  in  earnest '.'" 


THE   THREE   FATES.  127 

"Indeed  I  am,"  Constance  answered,  with  some  impa 
tience.  "  Do  you  think  I  would  say  such  a  thing  if  I  were 
not  sure  of  it?  Do  you  not  feel  it  yourself?  Did  you 
not  know  it  when  you  were  writing?  " 

"No  —  I  thought,  because  it  was  written  so  fast  it 
could  not  be  worth  much.  Indeed,  I  think  so  still  —  I 
am  afraid  that  you  are  — 

"Mistaken?" 

"Perhaps  —  carried  away  because  you  like  me,  or 
because  you  think  I  ought  to  write  well." 

"Nonsense.  Promise  me  that  you  will  not  show  this 
book  to  any  one  until  it  is  quite  finished.  I  want  you  to 
take  my  word  for  it,  to  believe  in  my  judgment,  because 
I  know  I  am  right.  Will  you?" 

"Of  course  I  will.  To  whom  should  I  show  it?  I 
think  I  should  be  ashamed." 

"  You  need  not  be  ashamed  if  you  go  on  in  that  way. 
When  will  you  have  written  more?" 

"Give  me  three  days  —  that  will  give  you  three  chap 
ters  at  least  and  take  you  well  into  the  story.  You  are 
not  going  out  of  town  yet." 

"I  shall  not  go  until  it  is  finished,"  said  Constance 
witli  great  determination.  She  had  made  up  her  mind 
that  George  would  write  better  if  he  wrote  very  fast, 
and  she  meant  to  urge  him  to  do  his  utmost. 

"But  that  may  take  a  long  time,"  he  objected. 

"No  it  will  not,"  she  answered.  "You  Avould  not 
keep  me  in  New  York  when  it  is  too  hot,  would  you?  " 

"I  will  do  my  best,"  said  George. 

He  kept  his  word  and  three  weeks  later  he  sat  in  his 
room,  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  writing  the  last 
page  of  his  first  novel.  He  was  in  a  state  of  indescrib 
able  excitement,  though  he  seined  to  be  no  longer  think 
ing  at  all.  The  pen  seemed  to  do  the  work  of  itself  and 
he  followed  the  words  that  appeared  so  quickly  with  a, 
feverish  interest.  He  had  not  the  least  idea  how  it 
would  all  look  when  it  was  done,  but  something  told  him 
that  it  was  being  done  in  the  right  way.  His  hand  new 


THK    THKMK    1  A  I  B& 

from  side  to  side  of  the  paper,  and  then  stopped  sud 
denly,  why,  he  could  not  tell.  It  was  not  possible  that 
then-  shtuihl  lie  nothing  JM,,|-,.  to  say.  no  moiv  to  add,  not 
one  word  to  make  tin-  completion  more  complete.  Me 
collected  his  thoughts  and  read  the  page  over  earehilh  to 
the  end.  No  —  there  was  nothing  wanting,  and  one  word 
more  would  spoil  the  conclusion. 

"I  do  not  understand  why,  I  am  sure,"  he  said  to  him 
self.  "But  that  is  the  end,  and  tin-re  is  no  doubt  about 
it.  So  here  it  goes !  George  —  Winton  —  Wood  —  .Ma\ 
L>9th." 

He  pushed  the  sheet  away  from  him.  Rather  theat- 
rical,  he  thought,  to  sign  his  name  to  it,  as  though  it 
were  a  real  l>ook,  and  as  though  the  manuscript  were 
worth  keeping.  He  had  done  it  all  to  please  Constance, 
and  Constance  was  pleased.  In  twenty-four  days  he 
had  concocted  a  novel  —  and  he  had  never  in  his  life 
enjoyed  twenty-four  days  so  much.  That  was  because 
he  had  seen  Constance  so  often  and  because  this  wretched 
scroll  had  amused  her.  Would  she  like  the  la>t  time 
chapters?  Of  course  she  would.  He  would  take  her  tin- 
whole  manuscript  and  make  her  a  present  of  it.  That 
was  all  it  could  be  good  for.  To  publish  such  stuff  would 
be  folly,  even  if  any  publisher  could  be  found  to  abet 
Mich  madness.  (hi  the  whole,  he  would  j. refer  to  throw 
the  whole  into  the  tire.  Nobody  could  tell.  He  might 
be  famous  some  day  in  the  far  future,  and  then  when  he 
uas  dead  and  gone  and  could  not  interfere  any  lunger, 
some  a bominable  literary  executor  would  get  hold  of  this 
thing  and  print  it,  and  show  the  world  what  an  egregious 
tUU  the  celebrated  George  Winton  Wood  had  been  \\  hen  he 
irtsa  very  young  man.  But  Constance  could  have  it  it  she 
liked,  on  condition  that  it  was  never  shown  t<»an\bod\. 

Thereupon  (jeorge  tumbled  into  bed  and  slept  soundh 
until  ten  o'clock  on  the  following  morning,  when  he 
gathered  up  his  DUUlUBOript,  tied  it  up  into  a  neat  bundle 
and  went  to  meet  <  'oiistanee  at  t  heir  acciiMoined  t  r\  >t  ing- 
nlace  in  t  lie  I'ark. 


THE   THREE    FATES.  129 

There  were  some  very  striking  passages  towards  the 
conclusion  of  the  book,  and  George  read  them  as  well  as 
he  could.  Indeed  as  many  of  the  best  speeches  were  put 
into  the  mouth  of  the  hero  and  were  supposed  to  be  ad 
dressed  to  the  lady  of  his  affections,  George  found  it 
very  natural  to  speak  them  to  Constance  and  to  give 
them  a  very  tender  emphasis.  It  was  clear,  too,  that 
Constance  understood  the  real  intention  of  the  love-mak 
ing  and,  to  all  appearance,  appreciated  it,  for  the  colour 
came  and  went  softly  in  her  face,  and  there  was  some 
times  a  little  moisture  in  her  eyes  and  sometimes  a  light 
that  is  not  caused  by  mere  interest  in  an  everyday  novel. 
George  wrote  better  than  he  talked,  as  many  men  do  who 
are  born  writers.  There  was  music  in  his  phrases,  but 
it  was  the  music  of  pure  nature  and  not  the  rhythm  of  a 
studied  prose.  That  was  what  most  struck  the  attention 
of  the  young  girl  who  sat  beside  him,  drinking  in  the 
words  which  she  knew  were  meant  for  her,  and  which 
she  felt  were  more  beautiful  than  anything  she  had  heard 
before. 

To  tell  the  truth,  though  she  had  spoken  her  admira 
tion  very  frankly  and  forcibly,  she  was  beginning  to 
doubt  her  own  ability  to  judge  of  the  work.  If  George's 
talent  were  really  as  great  as  it  now  seemed  to  her,  ho\v 
had  it  remained  concealed  so  long?  There  had  been 
nothing  to  compare  with  this  in  his  numerous  short  writ 
ings.  Was  this  because  they  had  not  been  addressed  to 
herself,  or  was  it  for  this  very  reason  that  his  novel  was 
so  much  more  fascinating?  Or  was  it  really  because  he 
had  at  last  found  out  his  strength  and  was  beginning  to 
use  it  like  a  giant?  She  could  not  tell.  Slit;  confessed  to 
herself  that  she  had  assumed  much  in  setting  up  her 
judgment  as  a  standard  for  him  in  the  matter.  The  more 
he  had  read,  the  more  she  had  been  amazed  at  his  knowl 
edge  of  things  and  men,  at  his  easy  versatility  and  at  the 
power  he  displayed  in  the  more  dramatic  parts  of  the 
book.  Of  one  tiling  she  felt  sure.  The  book  would  be 
read  and  would  be  liked  by  the  class  of  people  with  whom 


111!      TIIKKI       lAi'KS. 

she  a^soeiated.      What    the   critics   might   think   or   say 
about  it  was  another  matter. 

She  had  been  prepared  tor  >omething  well  done  at  tin- 
last,  but  she  had  not  anticipated  the  ending — that  end 
ing  which  had  so  much  surprised  the  writer  himself  in 
his  inexperience  of  his  own  powers.  His  voice  trembled 
as  he  read  the  hist  page,  and  he  was  not  e\  en  conscious 
of  l>eing  ashamed  of  showing  so  much  feeling  about  the 
creatures  of  his  imagination.  He  was  aware,  as  in  a 
dream  that  Constance's  small  hand  was  tightly  clasped 
in  his  while  lie  was  reading,  and  then,  as  his  voice 
ceased,  he  felt  her  head  resting  against  his  shoulder. 

She  was  looking  down  and  he  could  only  see  that  there 
was  colour  in  her  face,  but  as  he  gazed  at  the  tiny  fair 
•  nils  that  were  just  visible  to  him,  he  saw  a  crystal  tear 
fall  upon  his  rough  sleeve  and  glisten  in  the  May  sun 
light 

"You  have  dropped  one  of  your  diamonds,''  he  said. 
softly.  "Is  it  for  me  —  or  for  the  man  in  the  book?" 

She  looked  up  into  his  face  with  a  happy  smile. 

"You  should  know  best,"  she  answered. 

Her  face  was  very  near  to  his,  and  though  his  came 
nearer,  she  did  not  draw  hers  away,  (ieorge  forgot  the 
nurses  and  the  children  in  the  distance.  It'  all  his 
.(--••milled  acquaintances  had  been  drawn  up  in  ranks 
re  him.  lie  would  have  forgotten  their  presence  too. 
lli>  lips  touched  her  cheek,  not  timidly,  nor  roughly 
either,  though  he  felt  for  one  moment  that  his  blood  was 
«.n  lire.  Then  she  drew  back  quickly  and  took  her  hand 
trom  his. 

"  It  is  very  wrong  of  me,"  she  said.  "  Perhaps  I  shall 
never  Inve  you  enough  tor  that." 

"How  can  you  say  so?  \Ya>  it  tor  the  man  in  the 
book,  then,  aft.-r  all?" 

"I  do  not  know  —  fm-gi-t  it.  It  ma\  come  some 
day " 

"  I>  it  nearer  than  it  was?      Is  it  any  nearer?" 
•  i.  ver\   tenderly. 


THK    Til  HUH    KATES.  131 

"I  do  not  know.  T  am  very  foolish.  Your  book 
moved  me  I  suppose  —  it  is  so  grand,  that  last  part, 
where  he  tells  her  the  truth,  and  she  sees  how  noble  he 
has  been  all  through." 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  liked  it  so  much.  It  was  written 
to  amuse  you,  and  it  has  done  that,  at  all  events.  So 
here  it  is.  Do  you  care  to  keep  it?  " 

Constance  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  not  understand 
ing  what  lie  meant. 

"Of  course  I  want  it,"  she  answered.  "After  it  is 
printed  give  it  back  to  me." 

"Printed!"  exclaimed  George,  contemptuously.  "Do 
you  think  anybody  would  publish  it?  Do  you  really 
think  I  would  offer  it  to  anybody?" 

"  You  are  not  serious, "  said  the  young  girl,  staring  at 
him. 

"  Indeed  I  am  in  earnest.  Do  you  believe  a  novel  can 
be  dashed  off  in  that  way,  in  three  or  four  weeks  and  be 
good  for  anything?  Why,  it  needs  six  months  at  least 
to  write  a  book !  " 

"What  do  you  call  this?"  Constance  asked,  growing 
suddenly  cold  and  taking  the  manuscript  from  his  hands. 

"Not  a  book,  certainly.  It  is  a  scrawl  of  some  sort, 
a  little  better  than  a  dime  novel,  a  little  poorer  than 
the  last  thrilling  tale  in  a  cheap  weekly.  Whatever  it 
is,  it  is  not  a  publishable  story." 

Constance  could  not  believe  her  ears.  She  did  not 
know  whether  to  be  angry  at  his  persistent  contempt  of 
her  opinion,  or  to  be  frightened  at  the  possibility  of  his 
being  right. 

"We  cannot  both  be  right,"  she  said  at  last,  with  sud 
den  energy.  "One  of  us  two  must  be  an  idiot  —  an 
absolute  idiot  —  and  —  well,  I  would  rather  not  think 
that  I  am  the  one,  you  know." 

George  laughed  and  tried  to  take  the  manuscript  back, 
but  she  held  it  behind  her  and  faced  him. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?"  he  asked,  when 
he  saw  that  she  was  determined  to  keep  it. 


INK    rHRBl    IATES. 

"1  will  not  tt-11  \«>u.  l)id  you  not  say  you  had  written 
it  forme?" 

"  Yes,  but  for  you  alone." 

"Not  at  all.  It  is  my  property,  and  I  will  make  anv 
use  of  it  I  like." 

"Please  do  not  show  it  to  any  one,"  he  said  very  ear 
nestly. 

"  I  promise  nothing.  It  is  mine  to  disjx)se  of  as  I  see 
fit." 

"Let  me  look  over  it  at  least —  I  am  >un-  it  is  lull  of 
bad  English,  and  there  are  lots  of  words  left  out,  and 
the  punctuation  is  erratic,  (Jive  me  that  chance." 

"  Xo.  I  will  not.  You  can  do  it  on  the  proof.  You 
air  always  telling  me  of  what  you  do  on  the  proofs  of 
thin< 

"Constance!  For  Heaven's  sake  give  it  back  to  me 
and  think  no  more  about  it." 

"Do  you  love  me?" 

"  You  know  I  do " 

"And  do  you  want  me  to  love  you? — I  mav.  you 
know." 

"1  want  nothing  else  —  but,  Constance,  I  beg  of 
you '* 

"Thru  apply  your  gigantic  intellect  to  the  contempla 
tion  of  what  concerns  you.  To  be  short,  mind  your  own 
ImMiiess,  and  go  home." 

"Please ' 

"  If  you  are  not  gone  before  I  count  live,  I  shall  hate 
you.  I  am  beginning  —  one  —  two 

"Well,  there  is  one  satisfaction,"  said  George,  aban 
doning  the  contest,  "  if  \  on  >eiid  it  to  a  publisher  to  read. 
\oti  will  never  see  it  again,  nor  hear  of  it." 

"  I  Will  Stand  Over  Mm  \\hih-    he    ivads    it."   >aid    ('on 
Stance,   laughing.       ••  I  1   \  on  an-  gin  id  \«m  can   take    me    !•• 
the  carriage  —  if  not.  go  away." 

George  walked  by  her  side  and  helped  her  into  the 
brougham  that  waited  tor  her  a  short  distance  from  the 
place  u  here  they  had  >at.  He  \s  a>  utterly  overcome  by 


THE   THKEE    tfATES.  133 

the  novelty  of  the  situation  and  did  not  even  attempt  to 
speak. 

"  It  is  a  great  book, "  said  Constance,  speaking  through 
the  open  window  after  he  had  shut  the  door.  "  Tell  him 
to  go  home." 

"  I  do  not  care  a  straw  what  it  is,  so  long  as  it  has 
pleased  you.  Home,  John !  " 

"Yes  sir." 

And  away  the  carriage  rolled.  Constance  had  not 
determined  what  she  should  do  with  her  prize,  but  she 
was  not  long  in  making  up  her  mind.  George  had  often 
spoken  of  his  friend  Johnson,  and  had  shown  her  arti 
cles  written  by  him.  It  struck  her  that  he  would  be  the 
very  person  to  whom  she  might  apply  for  help.  George 
would  never  suspect  her  of  having  gone  to  him  and,  from 
all  accounts,  he  was  an  extremely  reticent  and  judicious 
personage.  She  told  the  coachman  to  drive  her  to  the 
office  of  the  newspaper  to  which  Johnson  belonged  and 
to  beguile  the  time  she  began  to  read  the  manuscript 
over  again  from  the  beginning.  When  the  carriage 
stopped  she  did  not  know  that  she  had  been  driving  for 
more  than  an  hour  since  she  had  left  George  standing  in 
the  road  in  the  Park. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Constance  did  not  find  Johnson  without  asking  her 
way  many  times,  and  losing  it  nearly  as  often,  in  the 
huge  new  building  which  was  the  residence  and  habita 
tion  of  the  newspaper.  Nor  did  her  appearance  fail  to 
excite  surprise  and  admiration  in  the  numerous  reporters, 
messengers  and  other  members  of  the  establishment  who 
had  glimpses  of  her  as  she  passed  rapidly  on,  from  cor 
ridor  to  corridor.  It  happened  that  Johnson  was  in  the 
room  allotted  to  his  department,  which  was  not  always  the 
case  at  that  hour,  for  he  did  much  of  his  work  at  his  home. 


134  nil-:  THI:KK   KATI.S. 

"Come  in!  "  he  s;iiil  sharply,  without  looking  up  from 
his  writing.  "  Well  —  what  is  it?  <  Hi !  "  as  he  saw  M  i» 
Fearing  standing  before  him.  "  1  beg  your  pardon, 
madam !  " 

"  Are  you  Mr.  Johnson?  Am  1  disturbing  you'.'  "  <  '<  in 
stance  asked.  She  was  beginning  to  be  surprised  at  her 
own  audacity,  and  almost  wished  she  had  not  come. 

"Yes  madam.  My  name  is  Johnson,  and  my  time  is 
at  your  service, "  said  the  pale  young  man,  moving  for 
ward  his  best  chair  and  ottering  it  to  her. 

"Thank  you.  I  will  not  trouble  you  long.  I  have 
here  a  novel  in  manuscript 

Johnson  interrupted  her  promptly. 

"Excuse  me,  madam,  but  to  avoid  all  misunderstand 
ing,  I  should  tell  you  frankly  from  the  first  that  we 
never  publish  fiction " 

"No,  of  course  not,"  Constance  broke  in.  "Let  me 
tell  my  story." 

Johnson  bowed  his  head  and  assumed  an  attitude  of 
attention. 

"A  friend  of  yours,"  the  young  girl  continued,  "has 
written  this  book.  His  name  is  Mr.  George  \Yinton 
Wood- 

"I  know  him  very  well."  Johnson  wondered  \\\\\ 
ii'-'trge  had  not  come  himself,  and  wondered  espeeiallv 
how  lie  happened  to  dispose  of  so  young  and  beautiful 
an  ambassadress. 

"Yes  —  he  has  often  told  me  about  you."  said  Con 
stance.  "Very  well.  He  has  written  this  novel,  and  1 
have  read  it.  He  thinks  it  is  not  worth  publishing,  and 
1  think  it  is.  I  want  to  ask  a  great  favour  of  yon.  Will 
you  read  it  yourself?  " 

The  pule  young  man  hesitated.  He  was  intensely 
•  •on^-ieiitioiis,  and  he  feared  there  was  something  ipieer 
about  the  business. 

"Pardon  me."  he  said,  "does  Mr.  Wood  know  that 
you  have  brought  it  to  im-'.'  " 

"No  indeed!  1  \\niild  not  have  him  know  it  for  tin- 
world:" 


THE   THREE    FATES.  135 

"  Then  I  would  rather  not  — 

"  But  you  must !  "  Constance  exclaimed  energetically. 
"  It  is  splendid,  and  he  wants  to  burn  it.  It  will  make 
his  reputation  in  a  day  —  I  assure  you  it  will!  And 
besides,  I  would  not  promise  him  not  to  show  it.  Please, 
please,  Mr.  Johnson 


"Well,  if  you  are  quite  sure  there  is  no  promise 


"Oh,  quite,  quite  sure.  And  will  you  give  me  your 
opinion  very  soon?  If  you  begin  to  read  it  you  will  not 
be  able  to  lay  it  down." 

Johnson  smiled  as  he  thought  of  the  hundreds  of 
manuscripts  he  had  read  for  publishers.  He  had  never 
found  much  difficulty  in  laying  aside  any  of  them. 

"It  is  true,"  Constance  insisted.  "It  is  a  great  book. 
There  has  been  nothing  like  it  for  ever  so  many  years." 

"  Very  well,  madam.  Give  me  the  screed  and  I  will 
read  it.  When  shall  I  send  —  or  would  you  rather " 

He  stopped,  not  knowing  whether  she  wished  to  give 
her  name.  Constance  hesitated,  too,  and  blushed  faintly. 

"I  am  Miss  Fearing,"  she  said.  "I  live  in  Washing 
ton  Square.  Will  you  write  down  the  address?  Come 
and  see  me  —  or  are  you  too  busy  ?  " 

"  I  will  bring  you  the  manuscript  the  day  after  to-mor 
row,  Miss  Fearing." 

"  Oh  please,  yes.  Xot  later,  because  I  cannot  go  out  of 
town  until  I  know  —  I  mean,  I  want  to  go  to  Newport 
as  soon  as  possible.  Come  after  five.  Will  you?  1 
mean  if  it  is  not  giving  you  really  too  much  trouble  — 

"Not  in  the  least,  Miss  Fearing,"  said  the  pale  young 
man  with  alacrity.  He  was  thinking  that  for  the  sake 
of  conversing  a  quarter  of  an  hour  with  such  an  exceed 
ingly  amiable  young  lady,  he  would  put  himself  to  vastly 
more  trouble  than  was  involved  in  stopping  at  Washing 
ton  Square  on  his  way  up  town  in  the  afternoon. 

"Thank  you.  You  are  so  kind.  Good-bye,  Mr. 
Johnson."  She  held  out  her  hand,  but  Johnson  seized 
his  hat  and  prepared  to  accompany  her. 

"Let  me  take  you  to  the  Elevated,  Miss  Fearing,"  he 
said. 


THE    THKKK    FA  I  IN 

"Thank  you  very  mucli.  l>ut   1    have  a   carriage  down 
stairs."    said    <  'onstance.      "It    yon    would   show    me   the 
way  —  it  is  so  very  complicated." 
tainly.  Miss  rYaring." 

Constance  wondered  why  In-  repeated  her  name  so 
often,  whether  it  was  a  habit  In-  had.  or  whether  he  wa> 
nervous,  or  whether  In-  thought  it  go<>d  manners.  She 
was  not  so  much  impressed  with  him  at  tirst  sight  as  she 
luid  expected  to  be.  He  had  not  said  anything  at  all 
clever,  though  it  was  true  that  there  had  not  been  manv 
opportunities  for  wit  in  tin-  conversation  that  had  taken 
place.  He  belonged  to  a  type  with  which  she  was  not 
familiar,  and  she  could  not  help  asking  herself  whether 
fleorgc  had  other  friends  like  him.  who.  if  she  knew 
them,  would  call  her  by  her  name  hall'  a  do/en  times  in 
three  minutes,  and  if  he  had  many  of  them  whether,  in 
the  event  of  her  marrying  him.  she  would  he  expected 
to  know  them  all  and  to  like  them  for  his  sake.  Not 
that  there  was  anything  common  or  vulgar  almnt  this 
Johnson  whom  George  praised  so  much.  He  spoke 
quietly,  without  any  especial  accent,  and  quite  without 
affectation.  He  was  dressed  with  perfect  simplicity  and 
gnnd  taste,  there  was  nothing  awkward  in  his  manner  — 
indeed  Constance  vaguely  wished  that  he  might  have 
>lmwn  some  little  awkwardness  ,„•  shyness.  lit-  was 
evidently  a  man  of  the  highest  education,  and  George 
said  he  was  a  man  of  the  highest  intelligence,  but  M 
Constance  gave  him  her  hand  and  lie  dosed  the  door  of 
the  brougham,  the  impression  came  over  her  with  star 
tling  vividness,  that  Mr.  .Jnhnsnn  was  emphatically  not  a 
man  she  would  ask  to  dinner.  She  felt  sure  that  if  she 
met  him  in  society  she  should  feel  a  vague  surprise  at 
his  being  there,  though  she  might  find  it  impossible  to 
say  why  he  should  not.  <  >n  the  other  hand,  though  she 
was  aware  that  she  put  herself  in  his  power  t«>  BODIfl 
extent,  since  it  was  impossible  that  he  should  not  guess 
that  hei-  interest  in  QeOfge  W6od  ITU  the  result  ot  BOmfl 
thing  at  }<--A^\  a  little  stronger  than  ordinary  friendship. 


THE   THREE    FATES.  137 

yet  she  very  much  preferred  to  trust  this  stranger  rather 
than  to  confide  in  airy  of  the  men  she  knew  in  society, 
not  excepting  John  Bond  himself. 

At  five  o'clock  on  the  day  agreed  upon,  Constance  was 
informed  that  "a  gentleman,  a  Mr.  Johnson/'  had  called, 
saying  that  he  came  by  appointment. 

"You  are  so  kind,"  said  Constance,  as  he  sat  down 
opposite  to  her.  He  held  the  manuscript  in  his  hand. 
"  And  what  do  you  think  of  it?  Am  I  not  right?  " 

"I  am  very  much  surprised,"  said  the  pale  young  man. 
"  It  is  a  remarkable  book,  Miss  Fearing,  and  it  ought  to 
be  published  at  once." 

Constance  had  felt  sure  of  the  answer,  but  she  blushed 
with  pleasure,  a  fact  which  did  not  escape  Johnson's 
quiet  scrutiny. 

"You  really  think  Mr.  Wood  has  talent?"  she  asked, 
for  the  sake  of  hearing  another  word  of  praise. 

"  There  is  more  talent  in  one  of  his  pages  than  in  the 
whole  aggregate  works  of  half  a  dozen  ordinarily  success 
ful  writers,"  Johnson  answered  with  emphasis. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  think  so  —  so  glad.  And  what  is 
the  first  thing  to  be  done  in  order  to  get  this  published? 
You  see,  I  must  ask  your  help,  now  that  you  have  given 
your  opinion." 

"  Will  you  leave  the  matter  in  my  hands,  Miss  Fear- 
ing?" 

Constance  hesitated.  There  was  assuredly  no  one  who 
would  be  more  likely  to  do  the  proper  thing  in  the  mat 
ter,  and  yet  she  reflected  that  she  knew  nothing  or  next 
to  nothing  of  the  man  before  her,  except  from  George's 
praise  of  his  intelligence. 

"  Suppose  that  a  publisher  accepts  the  book, "  she  said 
warily,  "what  will  he  give  Mr.  Wood  for  it?" 

"  Ten  per  cent  on  the  advertised  retail  price, "  Johnson 
answered  promptly. 

"Of  every  copy  sold,  I  suppose,"  said  Constance,  who 
had  a  remarkably  good  head  for  business.  "  That  is  not 
much,  is  it?  And  besides,  how  is  one  to  know  that  the 


ISI  TIIK    TIIKKK    FATES. 

publisher  is  honest'.'  One  hears  Midi  dreadful  Btoriefl 
almut  those  people." 

Johnson  laughed  a  little. 

"Faith  is  the  evidence  of  things  unseen,  supported  by 
reasonable  and  punctual  payments."  he  said.  "Pub 
lishers  are  not  all  Cretans,  Miss  I'Varing.  There  be  eer- 
tain  just  men  among  them  who  have  reputations  to  lose.91 

"And  none  of  them  would  do  better  than  that  by  tin- 
l>ook?  But  of  course  you  know.  Have  you  ever  pub 
lished  anything  yourself?  Forgive  my  ignorance  — 

"I  once  published  a  volume  of  critical  essays,"  John 
son  answered. 

"  What  was  the  title?    I  must  read  it  —  please  tell  me." 

"  It  is  not  worth  the  trouble,  I  assure  you.  The  title 
was  that — Critical  Essays  by  William  Johnson." 

"Thank  you,  I  will  rememlier.  And  will  you  really 
do  your  very  best  for  Mr.  Wood's  book?  Do  you  think 
it  could  be  published  in  a  fortnight?" 

"A  fortnight!"  exclaimed  Johnson,  agha-t  at  Con 
stance's  ignorance.  "  Three  months  would  be  the  short 
est  time  possible." 

"  Three  months !     Dear  me,  what  a  length  of  time !  " 

Johnson  rapidly  explained  as  well  as  In-  could  the 

principal  reasons  why  it  takes  longer  to  publish  a  1 k 

than  to  write  one.  He  exchanged  a  few  more  words 
with  Constance,  promising  to  make  every  effort  to  push 
on  the  appearance  of  the  novel,  but  advising  her  t<> 
expect  no  news  whatever  for  several  months.  Then  he 
took  his  leave. 

Half  an  hour  later  Constance  was  at  her  bookseller's. 

"I  want  a  book  called  Crit /'•<//  AVwn/x,  by  William 
Johnson,"  she  said.  "HftYejOUgoJ  it.  Mr.  Popple^.- " 

She  waited  some  time  before  it  was  brought  to  hd. 
Then  she  pretended  to  look  through  it  raivfnlly.  exam 
ining  the  headings  of  the  papers  that  were  collected 
in  it. 

"Is  it  worth  reading1.'"   she  asked  carelessly. 

•'  Excellent.   Mi»  Fearing."  answered   the   giv\ -haired 


THE   THREE    FATES.  139 

professional  bookseller.  He  had  known  Constance  since 
she  had  been  a  mere  child  with  a  passion  for  Mr.  Walter 
Crane's  picture-books.  " Excellent,''  lie  repeated,  em 
phatically.  "A  little  dry  .perhaps,  but  truly  excellent." 

"Has  it  been  a  success,  do  you  know?" 

"  Yes,  I  know,  Miss  Fearing, "  answered  Mr.  Popples, 
with  a  meaning  smile.  "I  know  very  Avell.  I  happen 
to  know  that  it  did  not  pay  for  the  printing. " 

"Did  the  author  not  even  get  ten  per  cent  on  the 
advertised  retail  price?"  Constance  inquired. 

Mr.  Popples  stared  at  her  for  a  moment,  evidently 
wondering  where  she  had  picked  up  the  phrase.  He, 
immediately  suspected  her  of  having  perpetrated  a  liter 
ary  misdeed  in  one  volume. 

"No,  Miss  Fearing.  I  happen  to  know  that  Mr.  John 
son  did  not  get  ten  per  cent  on  the  advertised  retail 
price  of  his  book;  in  point  of  fact,  he  got  nothing  at  all 
for  it,  excepting  a  number  of  very  flattering  notices. 
But  excuse  me,  Miss  Fearing,  if  you  were  thinking  of 

venturing  upon  publishing  anything "  His  voice 

dropped  to  a  confidential  pitch. 

"I?"    exclaimed  Constance. 

"  Well,  Miss  Fearing,  it  could  be  done  very  discreetly, 
you  know.  Just  a  little  volume  of  sweet  verse?  Is  that 
it,  Miss  Fearing?  Now,  you  know,  that  kind  of  thing 
would  have  a  run  in  society,  and  if  you  would  like  to  put 
it  into  my  hands,  I  know  a  publisher  — 

••  But,  Mr.  Popples,"  interrupted  Constance,  recover 
ing  from  her  amusement  so  far  as  to  be  able  to  interrupt 
the  current  of  the  bookseller's  engaging  offers,  "I  never 
Avrote  anything  in  my  life.  I  asked  out  of  sheer  curios 
ity." 

Mr.  Popples  smiled  blandly,  without  the  least  appear 
ance  of  disappointment. 

"Well,  well,  Miss  Fearing,  you  are  quite  right,"  he 
said.  "In  point  of  fact  those  little  literary  ventures  of 
young  ladies  very  rarely  do  come  to  much,  do  they?  To 
misquote  the  Laureate,  Miss  Fearing,  we  might  say  that 


140  IHI.    THKKK    FATKS. 

•  M«-ii    mu*t    write    ami    women    must    read'!      Kh.    Mis* 

Fearing? " 

Tin*  old  fellow  chuckled  at  his  l>a<l  joke,  as  lie  wrapped 
up  the  volume  of  ('/•/'/.•«//  A'»^//.s  !>\  William  Johnson. 
and  handed  it  aero**  tin-  table.  There  were  only  table* 
in  Mr.  1'opples's  establishment;  In-  de*p i*ed  counters. 

"Anything  el.se  to  serve  you.  Miss  I-Varing?  A  novel 
or  two,  for  the  May  weather'/  No?  Let  me  lake  it  to 
your  carriage." 

"Thanks.  I  am  walking,  but  I  will  carry  it.  Good 
evening.'" 

" Good  evening,  Miss  Fearing.  'Your  parasol  i*  here. 
Walking  this  evening!  In  the  .May  weather!  Good 
evening,  Miss  Feaiiim. 

And  Mr.  Popples  bowed  his  favourite  customer  out  of 
liis  establishment,  with  a  very  kindly  look  in  his  tired 
old  spectacled  eyes. 

Constance  had  got  what  she  had  come  for.  It  William 
Johnson,  author  of  Critical  Essay*,  a  journalist  and  a 
man  presumably  acquainted  with  all  the  ins  and  out>  o| 
publishing,  had  made  nothing  by  his  successful  book. 
George  would  be  doing  very  well  in  obtaining  ten  per 
cent  on  the  advertised  retail  price  of  every  copy  of  his 
novel  which  was  sold.  Constam-e  had  Wn  miMaken 
when  she  had  doubted  Johnson,  but  she  did  not  regret 
her  doubt  in  the  h-a.st.  After  all.  she  had  undertaken  t he 

responsibility  of  George'l  1 k.  and  she  could  not  con- 

M'ientiniisly  believe  everything  she  wa.s  told  by  .stranger> 
concerning  its  chances.  Mr.  Popples,  however,  was  above 
suspicion,  and  had.  moreover,  no  reason  for  telling  that 
the  Critical  Exsayx  had  brought  their  author  1:0  remu 
neration.  .Johnson'*  lace.  too.  inspired  confidence,  a-- 
well  as  <ieorge'>  own  trust  in  him.  ('oii>tance  felt  that 
she  had  done  all  she  could,  and  she  accordingly  made  her 
preparation*  for  .uroing  out  of  town. 

She  wa*  glad  to  -d  away,  in  order  to  study  herself. 
The  habit  of  introspection  had  grown  upon  her.  for  she 
had  encouraged  herself  in  it.  ever  since  she  had  begun  to 


THE    THREE    FATES.  141 

feel  that  George  was  something  more  to  her  than  a  friend. 
Her  over-conscientious  nature  feared  to  make  some  mis 
take  which  might  embitter  his  life  as  well  as  her  own. 
She  was  in  constant  dread  of  letting  herself  be  carried 
away  by  the  impulse  of  a  moment  to  say  something  that 
might  bind  her  to  marry  him,  before  she  could  feel  that 
she  loved  him  wholly  as  she  wished  to  love  him.  On 
looking  back,  she  bitterly  regretted  having  allowed  him 
to  kiss  her  cheek  on  that  morning  in  the  Park.  She  had 
been  under  the  influence  of  a  strong  emotion,  produced 
by  the  conclusion  of  his  book,  and  she  seemed  in  her  own 
eyes  to  have  acted  in  a  way  quite  unworthy  of  herself. 
Had  she  been  able  to  carry  her  analysis  further,  she 
would  have  discovered  that  behind  her  distrust  of  her 
self  she  felt  a  lingering  distrust  of  George.  A  year 
earlier  she  had  thought  it  possible  that  he  was  strongly 
attracted  by  her  fortune.  Now,  however,  she  would  have 
scouted  the  idea,  if  it  had  presented  itself  in  that  shape. 
But  it  was  present,  nevertheless,  in  a  more  subtle  form. 

"He  loves  me  sincerely,"  she  said  to  herself.  "He 
would  marry  me  now,  if  I  were  a  pauper.  But  would  he 
have  loved  me  from  the  first  if  I  had  been  poor?" 

It  was  not  often  that  she  put  the  question,  even  ii 
this  way,  but  as  it  belonged  to  that  class  of  vicious  in 
quiries  which  it  is  impossible  to  answer,  it  tormented  he 
perpetually  by  suggesting  a  whole. series  of  doubts,  use 
less  in  themselves  and  mischievous  in  their  consequences. 
She  was  convinced  of  two  things.  First,  that  she  was 
unaccountably  influenced  by  George's  presence  to  say 
and  do  things  which  she  was  determined  at  other  times 
that  she  would  never  say  or  do;  and,  secondly,  that 
whether  she  loved  him  truly  or  not  she  could  not  imagine 
herself  as  loving  any  one  else  nearly  so  much.  Under 
these  circumstances,  it  was  clearly  better  that  she  should 
not  see  him  for  a  considerable  time.  She  would  thus 
withdraw  herself  from  the  sphere  of  his  direct  influence, 
and  she  would  have  leisure  to  study  and  weigh  her  own 
feelings,  with  a  view  to  reaching  a  final  decision.  Never- 


1  \'2  THF    TFTKKK    F  A  TKS. 


looked  forward  to  tin-  moment  of  parting  from 
liim  with  something  that  was  very  like  pain.  Contrary 
to  her  expectations,  tin-  interview  passed  off  with  little 

show  of  emotion   (.11   either  side. 

They  talkt-d  for  some  time  about  the  bonk,  ConMance 
assuming  an  air  oi  m\>tery  as  regards  its  future 
George  speaking  of  it  with  the  utmost  indifference. 
the  last  minute,  when  lie  had  risen  to  go  and  wa>  stand 
ing  beside  her,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"You  do  not  think  1  am  heart  le>s.  do  you'.'  "  she  asked. 
looking  at  a  particular  hut  ton  on  hi>  coat. 

"No."  George  answered  "I  think  you  an-  very  sin 
cere.  I  sometimes  wish  you  would  fnrg''t  to  he  so  sincere 
with  yourself.  I  wish  you  would  let  yourself  run  away 
with  yourself  now  and  then." 

"That  would  !>e  very  wrong.  It  would  he  very  unfair 
and  unjust  to  you.  Suppose  —  only  suppose,  you  know 
—  that  I  made  up  my  mind  to  marry  you.  and  then  dis- 
eovered  when  it  was  too  late  that  I  did  not  love  you. 
Would  not  that  l>e  dreadful1.'  Is  it  not  better  to  wait  a 
little  longer?" 

"You  shall  never  say  that  I  have  pre>sed  ymi  int..  a 
decision  a,ur;iinst  your  will,"  said  George,  Let  raying  in 
one  speech  his  youth,  his  ignorance  of  woman  in  genera! 
and  his  alm«»t  quixotic  readiness  to  obey  Constance  in 
anything  and  everything. 

"You  are  very  generous,"  she  an>wered.  still  looking 
at  the  button.  "lint  I  will  not  feel  that  I  am  spoiling 
your  life  —  no.  let  me  >jn-ak  —  to  keep  you  in  this  posi 
lion  much  longer  would  he  doing  that,  indeed  it  would. 
In  >ix  months  from  now  you  will  be  famous.  I  know  it. 
though  you  laugh  at  me.  Then  \  ou  will  be  able  to  marry 
whom  you  please.  I  cannot  marry  you  now.  for  I  do  not 
love  you  enough.  Ymi  are  free,  you  must  not  feel  that 
I  want  to  bind  yon.  do\<>u  understand.  You  will  travel 
this  summer,  for  you  have  told  me  that  u.ii  are  going  to 
make  several  visits  in  e.nmt  ry-houses.  If  JTOU  B6C  :my 
olio  \  on  like  better  than  me.  do  not  feel  that  VOU  are 


THE  THKEE   FATES.  143 

tied  by  any  promises.  It  would  not  break  my  heart,  if 
you  married  some  one  else." 

In  spite  of  her  calmness  there  was  a  slight  tremor  in 
her  voice  which  did  not  escape  George's  ear. 

"I  shall  never  love  any  one  else,"  he  said  simply. 

"You  may.  I  may.  But  waiting  must  have  a 
limit » 

"Say  this,  Constance,"  said  George.  "Say  that  if,  by 
next  May,  you  do  not  love  me  less  than  you  do  now,  you 
\vill  be  my  wife." 

"No.  I  must  love  you  more.  If  I  love  you  better  than 
now,  it  will  show  that  my  love  is  always  to  increase,  and 
I  will  marry  you." 

"In  May?" 

"In  May,  next  year.  But  this  is  no  engagement.  I 
make  no  promise,  and  I  will  take  none  from  you.  You 
are  free,  and  so  am  I,  until  the  first  of  May  — 

"I  shall  never  be  free  again,  dear,"  said  George,  hap 
pily,  for  he  anticipated  great  things  of  the  strange  agree 
ment  she  proposed.  He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  drew 
her  to  him  very  tenderly.  Another  second  and  his  lips 
would  have  touched  her  cheek,  just  where  they  had 
touched  it  once  before.  But  Constance  drew  back 
quickly  and  slipped  from  his  arm. 

"No,  no,"  she  laughed,  "that  is  not  a  part  of  the 
agreement.  It  is  far  too  binding." 

George's  face  was  grave  and  sad.  Her  action  had 
given  him  a  sharp  thrust  of  painful  disappointment,  and 
lie  did  his  best  not  to  hide  it.  Constance  looked  at  him 
a  moment. 

"Am  I  not  right?"  she  asked. 

"  You  are  always  right  —  even  when  you  give  me 
pain,"  he  answered  with  a  shade  of  bitterness. 

"Have  I  given  you  pain  now?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  think,  from  the  way  I  behaved,  that  I  would 
let  you  kiss  me  for  good-bye?" 

"Yes." 


144  THI-:  THI: 1. 1     I  \  PBS, 

"  Y<ui  shall  net  say  that  I  hurt  you.  and  YOU  shall  imt 
go  away  believing  thai  I  deceived  you."  said  ( 'oiiManee. 
coming  l»a«-k  to  him. 

She  put  her  two  hands  round  his  neck  and  drew  down 
his  willing  face.  Thru  she  kissed  him  softly  on  both 
cheeks. 

'*  Forgive  me,"  she  said.  "  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you. 
Good-bye  —  dear. " 

George  left  the  house  feeling  very  happy,  but  per 
suaded  that  neither  lie  nor  any  other  man  could  evei 
understand  the  heart  of  woman,  which,  after  all,  seemed 
to  be  the  only  thing  in  the  world  worth  understanding. 
He  had  ample  time  for  reflection  in  the  course  of  the 
summer,  but  without  the  reality  before  him  the  studs  «>l 
the  problem  grew  more  and  more  perplexing. 

The  weather  grew  very  warm  in  the  end  of  June,  and 
George  left  Xew  York.  He  had  written  much  in  the 
course  of  the  year  and  had  earned  enough  money  to  ^i\e 
himself  a  rest  during  the  hot  months,  lie  tried  to  per 
suade  his  father  to  accompany  him  and  to  spend  the  time 
by  the  seaside  while  George  himself  made  his  promised 
visits.  But  Jonah  Wood  declared  that  he  preferred  Ne\\ 
York  in  the  summer  and  that  nothing  would  induce  him 
to  waste  money  on  such  folly  as  travelling.  To  tell  the 
truth,  the  old  gentleman  had  grown  accustomed  to  rigid 
ccoiioniv  in  his  little  house  in  town,  but  he  could  not  look 
forward  with  any  pleasure  to  the  discomforts  of  second- 
rate  hotels  in  second-rate  plaeex.  So  George  went  away 
alone. 

He  had  already  begun  another  book.  He  did  not  look 
upon  his  tirst  effort  in  the  li.L,rht  of  a  book  at  all,  but  he  had 
l.oted  blood,  and  the  thirst  was  upon  him.  and  he  must 
needs  quench  it.  This  time,  however,  lie  set  himself 
^teadily  to  work  to  do  the  very  best  he  could,  labouring 
to  repress  his  own  vivacity  and  trying  to  keep  out  of  the 
fever  that  was  threatening  to  carry  him  away  outside  of 
himself.  He  limited  his  work  strictly  to  a  small  amount 
every  day.  polishing  e\ei\  .sentence  and  thinking  out 


THE  THREE   FATES.  145 

every  phrase  before  it  was  set  down.  Working  in  this 
way  he  had  written  about  half  a  volume  by  the  end  of 
August,  when  he  found  himself  in  a  pleasant  country- 
house  by  the  sea  in  the  midst  of  a  large  party  of  people. 
He  had  all  but  forgotten  his  first  book,  and  had  certainly 
but  a  very  dim  recollection  of  what  it  contained.  He 
looked  back  upon  its  feverish  production  as  upon  a  sort 
of  delirious  dream  during  which  he  had  raved  in  a  lan 
guage  now  strange  to  his  memory. 

One  afternoon,  in  the  midst  of  a  game  of  lawn-tennis, 
a  telegram  was  brought  to  him. 

"  Kob  Boy  and  Co.  publish  book  immediately  England 
and  America.  Have  undertaken  that  you  accept  royalty 
ten  per  cent  retail  advertised  price.  Wire  reply.  C.  F." 

George  possessed  a  very  considerable  power  of  con 
cealing  his  emotions,  but  this  news  was  almost  too  much 
for  his  equanimity.  He  thrust  the  despatch  into  his 
pocket  and  went  on  playing,  but  he  lost  the  game  in  a 
shameful  fashion  and  was  roundly  abused  by  his  cousin 
Mamie  Trimm,  who  chanced  to  be  his  partner.  Mamie 
and  her  mother  were  stopping  in  the  same  house,  by  what 
Mrs.  Sherrington  Trimm  considered  a  rather  unfortunate 
accident,  since  Mamie  was  far  too  fond  of  George  already. 
In  reality,  the  excellent  hostess  had  an  idea  that  George 
loved  the  girl,  and  as  the  match  seemed  most  appropriate 
in  her  eyes,  she  had  brought  them  together  on  purpose. 

As  soon  as  possible  he  slipped  away,  put  on  his  flannel 
jacket  and  went  to  the  telegraph  office,  reading  the  de 
spatch  he  had  received  over  and  over  again  as  he  hurried 
along  the  path,  and  trying  to  compose  his  answer  at  the 
same  time.  Constance's  message  seemed  amazingly  neat, 
businesslike  and  concise,  and  he  wondered  whether  some 
one  else  had  not  been  concerned  in  the  affair.  The  phrase 
about  the  royalty  did  not  sound  like  a  woman's  expres 
sion,  though  she  might  have  copied  it  from  the  pub 
lisher's  letter. 

George  had  formerly  imagined  that  if  his  first  per 
formance  were  really  in  danger  of  being  published,  he 


146  INK    IHI:I-:K   F  v  n-;s. 

>h<»ultl  do  everything  in  his  power  to  prevent  such  a 
trnj.hr.  He  It-It  no  .Mich  impulse  now,  however. 
IfiOttM.  Kob  Koy  and  Company  were  very  serious  ].«-. ij.l.-. 
-reat  publishers,  whose  mum-  alone  gave  a  book  a  chance 
of  success.  They  bore  an  exceptional  reputation  in  the 
world  of  books,  and  George  knew  very  well  that  the\ 
would  not  publish  trash.  I.ut  he  was  not  dated  by  the 
news,  however  much  surprised  he  might  be.  It  was 
strange,  indeed,  that  a  firm  of  such  good  judgment  should 
have  accepted  his  novel,  but  it  could  not  but  lie  a  failure. 
all  the  same.  He  would  get  the  proofs  u  so.m  as  pos- 
sible,  and  he  would  do  what  he  could  to  make  the  work 
decently  presentable  by  inserting  plentiful  improvements. 

His  answer  to  Constance's  telegram  was  short. 

••  Deplore  catastrophe.  Pity  public.  Thank  pub 
lisher.  Agree  terms.  Where  are  proofs'.'  (r.  \Y." 

By  the  time  the  proofs  were  ready,  George  was  once 
more  in  New  York,  though  Constance  had  not  yet 
returned.  He  was  hard  at  work  upon  his  second  book 
and  looked  with  some  disgust  at  the  package  of  printed 
matter  that  la}'  folded  us  it.  had  come,  upon  his  table. 
Nevertheless  he  opened  the  bundle  and  looked  at  them. 

"Confound  them!'*  he  exclaimed.  "They  have  Bent 
me  a  paged  proof  instead  of  galleys:  " 

It  WJIK  evident  that  he  could  not  iii^Tt  many  changes, 
where  the  matter  wa^  already  arranged  in  book  form. 
and  he  anticipated  endless  annoyance  in  pasting  in 
extensive  "riders"  of  \\riting-paper  in  order  to  -et  room 
for  the  vast  changes  he  considered  necessary. 

An  hour  later  he  was  lying  back  in  his  easy-chair 
reading  his  own  novel  with  breathless  interest.  He  had 
not  yet  made  a  correct  inn  of  aii\  kind  in  the  text.  It 
not  until  the  following  day  that  he  was  able  to  go 
over  it  all  more  calmly,  hut  even  then,  he  found  that 
little  rou hi  be  don.-  to  improve  it.  \Vhen  he  had  tini>hed. 
he  sent  the  proofs  back  and  wrote  a  letter  to  OonatftllOe. 

"I  have  read  the  book  over."  he  wrote,  among  other 
things,  "and  it  is  not  so  bad  as  I  supposed.  I  know 


THK   THKEE   FATES.  147 

that  it  cannot  be  good,  but  I  am  convinced  that  worse 
novels  have  found  their  way  into  print,  if  not  into 
notice.  I  take  back  at  least  one-tenth  of  all  I  said  about 
it  formerly,  and  I  will  not  abuse  it  in  the  future,  leav 
ing  that  office  to  those  who  will  doubtless  command 
much  forcible  language  in  support  of  their  just  opinion. 
Am  T  to  thank  you,  too?  I  hardly  know.  There  are 
other  things  for  which  I  would  rather  be  in  a  position  to 
owe  you  thanks.  However,  the  die  is  cast,  you  have 
made  a  skipping-rope  of  the  Rubicon  and  have  whisked 
it  under  my  feet  without  my  consent.  Let  the  poor  book 
take  its  chance.  Its  birth  was  happy,  may  its  death  at 
least  be  peaceful." 

To  this  Constance  replied  three  weeks  later. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  that  a  disposition  to  repentance  has 
set  in.  You  are  wise  in  not  abusing  my  book  any  more. 
You  ought  to  be  doing  penance  in  sackcloth  and  ashes 
before  that  bench  in  Central  Park  on  which  I  sat  when  1 
told  you  it  was  good.  The  children  would  all  laugh  at 
you,  and  throw  stones  ab  you,  and  I  should  be  delighted. 
I  am  not  coming  to  town  until  it  is  published  and  is  a 
success,  ({race  thinks  I  have  gone  into  speculations, 
because  I  get  so  many  letters  and  telegrams  about  it.  I 
shall  not  tell  you  what  the  people  who  read  the  manu 
script  said  about  it.  You  can  find  that  out  for  yourself." 

George  awoke  one  morning  to  find  himself,  if  not 
famous,  at  least  the  topic  of  the  day  in  more  countries 
than  one.  A  week  had  not  elapsed  before  the  papers 
were  full  of  notices  of  his  book  and  speculations  as  to 
his  personality.  Xo  one  seemed  to  consider  that  George 
\Vinton  Wood,  the  novelist,  could  be  the  same  man  as 
G.  W.  Wood,  the  signer  of  modest  articles  in  the  maga 
zines.  The  first  review  called  him  an  unknown  person 
of  surprising  talent,  the  second  did  not  hesitate  to 
describe  him  as  a  man  of  genius,  and  the  third  — 
branded  him  as  a  plagiarist  who  had  stolen  his  plot  from 
a  forgotten  novel  of  the  beginning  of  the  century  and 
had  somehow  —  this  was  not  clear  in  the  article  —  made 


148  THK   rni:i-:i:   i  ATKS. 

capital  nut  nl  tin-  writing  of  M;icn»l)ius.  lit-  was  a  vil 
lain,  a  poacher,  a  pickpocket  novelist,  a  literary  hodv- 
siiatcher.  in  tact  in  tin-  BJM  nt  all  hut  tin-  over-lax  law. 
little  short  of  a  thief,  George  knew  that  sort  of  stvle. 
and  he  read  tlie  abuse  over  again  and  attain  with  unmiti 
gated  delight.  He  had  done  as  much  himself  in  the 
good  old  days  when  the  edit*. r>  would  let  him.  He  did 
not  show  this  particular  notice  to  his  lather,  however. 
and  only  handed  him  those  that  wen-  favourable  —  and 
they  were  many.  Jonah  Wood  sat  reading  them  all  day 
long,  over  and  over  again. 

"I  am  very  glad.  George,'1  lie  said,  repeatedly.  "I 
am  very  proud  of  you.  It  is  splendid.  Hut  do  \..u 
think  all  this  will  bring  you  much  pecuniarv  remunera 
tion?" 

"Ten  per  cent  on  the  advertised  retail  price  of  each 
copy,"  was  George's  answer. 

He  entered  the  railway  station  one  day  and  was  ama/ed 
to  see  the  walls  of  the  place  covered  with  huge-  placards, 
three  feet  square,  bearing  the  name  of  his  hook  and  his 
own,  alternately,  in  huge  black  letters  on  a  white  ground. 
The  young  man  at  the  bookstall  was  doing  a  thriving 
Business.  George  went  up  to  him. 

"That  book  seems  to  sell,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Like  hot  cakes."  answered  the  vendor,  ottering  him 
his  own  production.  "One  dollar  twenty-five  cents." 

"Thank  you,"  said  George.  "I  would  not  give  >«, 
much  for  a  novel." 

il  Well,  there  are  others  will,  I  guess."  answered  the 
young  man.  "Step  aside  if  you  please  and  give  thoe 
ladies  a  chance." 

smiled  and  turned  away. 


THE   THREE   FATES.  149 


CHAPTER   XI. 

Sherrington  Trimm  had  kept  Mr.  Craik's  secret  as 
well  as  he  could,  but  although  he  had  not  told  his  wife 
anything  positive  concerning  the  will  that  had  been  so 
hastily  drawn  up,  he  had  found  it  impossible  not  to  con 
vey  to  Totty  such  information  about  the  matter  as  was 
manifestly  negative.  She  had  seen  very  soon  that  he 
considered  the  inheritance  of  her  brother's  money  as  an 
illusion,  upon  which  he  placed  no  faith  whatever,  and 
she  had  understood  that  in  advising  her  not  to  think  too 
much  about  it,  he  meant  to  do  more  than  administer  one 
of  his  customary  rebukes  to  her  covetousness.  At  last, 
she  determined  to  know  the  truth  and  pressed  him  with 
the  direct  question. 

'k  So  far  as  I  know,  my  dear,"  he  answered,  gravely, 
"you  will  never  get  that  money,  so  you  may  just  as  well 
put  the  subject  out  of  your  mind,  and  be  satisfied  with 
what  you  have." 

Neither  diplomacy  nor  cajolery  nor  reproaches  could 
force  anything  more  definite  than  this  from  Sherringtoii 
Trimm's  discreet  lips,  though  Totty  used  all  her  weap 
ons,  and  used  them  very  cleverly,  in  her  untiring  efforts 
to  find  out  the  truth.  Was  Tom  going  to  leave  his  gold 
to  a  gigantic  charity?  Sherry's  round,  pink  face  grew 
suddenly  stony.  Was  it  a  hospital  or  an  asylum  for 
idiots  ?  —  he  really  might  tell  her !  His  expression  never 
changed.  Totty  was  in  despair,  and  her  curiosity  tor 
mented  her  in  a  way  that  would  have  done  credit  to  the 
gad-fly  which  tortured  lo  of  old.  Neither  by  word,  nor 
look,  nor  deed  could  Sherry  be  made  to  betray  his 
brother-in-law's  secret.  He  was  utterly  impenetrable, 
as  soon  as  the  subject  was  brought  up,  and  Totty  even 
fancied  that  he  knew  beforehand  when  she  was  about  to 
set  some  carefully-devised  trap  for  him,  so  ready  was  he 
to  oppose  her  wiles. 


10U  I  111.     1  HUl.h     1  A  I  H& 

On  the  other  hand  since  old  Mr.  Craik  had  recovered, 
his  sister  had  shown  herself  more  than  usually  anxious 
to  please  him.  In  this  she  argued  as  her  husband  liad 
<lone,  saying  that  a  man  who  had  changed  his  will  once 
might  very  possibly  change  it  again.  She  t h«  rrtm.- 
spared  no  pains  in  consulting  Turn's  ph-asim-  whene\  «-r 
occasion  offered,  and  she  employed  her  best  tact  in  mak 
ing  his  life  agreeable  to  him.  He.  uii  his  part.  was  even 
more  diverted  than  she  intended  that  he  should  he.  and 
he  watched  all  her  moves-  with  inward  amusement. 
There  had  never  l>een  any  real  sympathy  between  them. 
He  had  been  the  first  child,  and  several  others  had  died 
in  infancy  during  a  long  series  <>l  years,  Totty,  the 
youngest  of  all,  alone  surviving,  separated  from  her 
brother  in  age  by  nearly  twenty  years.  From  her  child 
hood,  she  had  always  been  trying  to  get  something  from 
him,  and  whenever  the  matters  in  hand  did  not  chance 
to  clash  with  his  own  interests,  he  had  granted  her 
request.  Indeed,  on  the  whole,  and  considering  tin 
man's  grasping  character,  he  had  treated  her  with  41  eat 
generosity.  Totty 's  gratitude,  however,  though  always 
sincere,  was  systematically  prophetic  in  regard  to  tav.>m> 
to  come,  and  Tom  had  often  wondered  whether  anything 
in  the  world  would  satisfy  her. 

<  >f  late  she  seemed  to  have  developed  an  intense  inter 
est  in  the  means  of  prolonging  life,  and  she  did  not  tail 

to  giro  him  the  benefit  of  all  the  newest  theories  on  the 

subject.  Tom,  however,  did  not  feel  that  he  was  going 
to  die,  and  was  more  and  more  irritated  by  her  otlicious 
suggestions.  One  day  she  took  ujxm  herself  t«>  he  more 
than  usually  pressing.  He  had  IM-CH  suffering  from  a 
slight  cold,  and  she  had  passed  an  anxious  week." 

•'There  is  nothing  f«»r  you.  Tom."  she  said,  "but  a 
milk  cure  and  massage.  The\  ->,iy  there  is  nothing  like 
it.  It  i>  perfectly  wonderful ' 

Her  brothei-  raised  his  bent  head  and  looked  keenly  at 
her,  while  a  sour  >mile  passed  over  his  face. 

••  Look  here,  Totty,"  he  answered,  "don't 
should  keep  better  in  camphor'.' " 


THE   THKEE   FATES.  151 

"  How  can  you  be  so  unkind !  "  exclaimed  Totty,  blush 
ing  scarlet.  She  rarely  blushed  at  all,  and  her  brother's 
amusement  increased,  until  it  reached  its  climax  and 
broke  out  in  a  hard,  rattling  laugh. 

After  this,  Mrs.  Trimm  grew  more  cautious.  She 
talked  less  of  remedies  and  cures  and  practised  with 
great  care  a  mournfully  sympathetic  expression.  In  the 
course  of  a  week  or  two  this  plan  also  began  to  wear 
upon  Craik's  nerves,  for  she  made  a  point  of  seeing  him 
almost  every  day. 

"I  say,  Totty,"  he  said  suddenly.  "If  anybody  is 
dead,  tell  me.  If  you  think  anybody  is  going  to  die, 
send  for  the  doctor.  But  if  they  are  all  alive  and  well, 
don't  go  round  looking  like  an  undertaker's  wife  when 
the  season  has  been  too  healthy." 

"How  can  you  expect  me  to  look  gay?"  Totty  asked 
with  a  sad  smile.  "Do  you  think  it  makes  me  happy  to 
see  you  going  on  in  this  way  ?  " 

"Which  way?"  inquired  Mr.  Craik  with  a  pleased 
grin. 

"  Why,  you  won't  have  massage,  and  you  won't  take 
the  milk  cure,  and  you  won't  go  to  Aix,  and  you  won't 
let  me  do  anything  for  you,  and  —  and  I'm  so  unhappy! 
Oh  Tom,  how  unkind  you  are !  " 

Thereupon  Mrs.  Trimm  burst  into  tears  with  much 
feeling.  Tom  Craik  looked  at  her  for  some  seconds  and 
then,  being  in  his  own  house,  rang  the  bell,  sent  for  the 
housekeeper  and  a  bottle  of  salts,  and  left  Totty  to 
recover  as  best  she  might.  He  knew  very  well  that 
those  same  tears  were  genuine  and  that  they  had  their 
source  in  anger  and  disappointment  rather  than  in  any 
sympathy  for  himself,  and  he  congratulated  himself  upon 
having  changed  his  will  in  time. 

The  old  man  watched  (leorgc  Wood's  increasing  suc 
cess  with  an  interest  that  would  have  surprised  the 
latter,  if  he  had  known  anything  of  it.  It  seemed  as  if, 
by  assuring  him  the  reversion  of  the  fortune,  Tom  Craik 
had  given  him  a  push  in  the  right  direction.  Since  that 


152  THK    THKFK    KATKS. 

tiiiH-.  indeed,  George's  lurk  liad  begun  to  turn,  ;nul  now. 
though  still  unconsciou>  of  the  wealth  that  awaited  him. 
he  was  already  far  on  the  road  to  celebrity  and  inde 
pendence.  The  lonely  old  man  of  business  found  a  new 
and  keen  excitement  in  following th6  doings  of  the  young 
fellow  for  whom  he  had  secretly  prepared  such  an  over 
whelming  surprise.  He  was  curious  to  gee  whether 
George  would  lose  his  head,  whether  he  would  turn  into 
the  fatuous  idol  of  afternoon  tea-parties,  or  whether  he 
would  fall  into  Vulgar  dissipation,  whether  Le  would 
quarrel  with  his  father  as  soon  as  he  was  independent, 
or  whether  he  would  spend  his  earnings  in  making  the 
old  gentleman  more  comfortable. 

Tom  Craik  cared  very  little  what  George  did,  provided 
he  did  something.  AY  hat  he  most  regretted  was  that  he 
could  not  possibly  l>e  present  to  enjoy  the  surprise  he 
had  planned.  It  amused  him  to  think  out  the  details  of 
his  future.  If,  for  instance,  George  took  to  drinking 
and  gambling,  losing  and  wasting  at  night  what  he  had 
laboured  hard  to  earn  during  the  day,  what  a  moment 
that  would  be  in  his  life  when  he  should  be  told  that 
Tom  Craik  was  dead,  and  that  he  was  master  of  a  great, 
fortune.  The  old  man  chuckled  over  the  idea,  and 
fancied  he  could  see  George's  face  when,  having  lost 
more  than  he  could  possibly  pay.  his  young  eyes  ln-a\  \ 
with  wine,  his  hand  tivmhling  with  excitement,  he  would 
be  making  his  last  desperate  stand  at  poker  in  the  quiet 
upper  room  of  a  gambling  club,  lie  would  lose  his 
nerve,  show  his  cards,  lose  and  sink  back  in  his  chair 
with  a  stare  of  horror.  At  that  moment  the  door  would 
open  and  Sherry  Trimm  would  come  in  and  whisper  a 
lew  words  in  his  car.  Tom  Craik  liked  to  imagine  the 
\oung  fellow's  bound  of  surprise,  the  stifled  crv  of 
ama/.ement  that  would  escape  from  his  lips,  the  doubt^. 
the  fears  that  would  beset  him  until  the  money  was 
his.  and  then  the  Midden  cure  that  would  follow.  XTet, 
thought  Tom.  there  was  no  Mich  cure  for  a  spendthrift 
.1-  a  fortune,  a  real  fortune.  To  make  a  man  love  mone\ , 


THE   THREE   FATES.  153 

give  it  to  him  all  at  once  in  vast  quantities  —  provided 
he  is  not  a  fool.  And  George  was  no  fool.  He  had 
already  proved  that. 

There  was  something  satanic  in  Mr.  Craik's  specula 
tions.  He  knew  the  world  well.  It  amused  him  to 
fancy  George,  admired  and  courted  as  a  literary  lion, 
hut  feared  by  all  judicious  mammas,  as  only  young,  poor 
and  famous  literary  lions  are  feared.  How  the  senti 
mental  young  ladies  would  crowd  about  him  and  offer 
him  tea,  cake  and  plots  for  his  novels!  And  how  the 
ring  of  mothers  would  draw  their  daughters  away  from 
him  and  freeze  him  with  airs  politely  cold!  How  two 
or  three  would  be  gathered  together  in  one  corner  of  the 
room  to  say  to  each  other  that  two  or  three  others  in  the 
opposite  corner  were  foolishly  exposing  their  daughters 
to  the  charms  of  an  adventurer,  for  his  books  bring  him 
in  nothing,  my  dear,  not  a  cent  —  Mr.  Popples  told  me 
so !  And  how  the  compliment  would  be  returned  upon 
the  two  or  three,  by  the  other  two  or  three,  with  usuri 
ous  compoimd  interest.  Enter  to  them,  thought  Craik, 
another  of  their  tribe  —  what  do  you  think,  my  dears? 
Tom  Craik  left  all  that  money  to  George  Wood,  house, 
furniture,  pictures,  horses  and  carriages  —  everything! 
Just  think!  I  really  must  go  and  speak  to  the  dear 
fellow!  And  how  they  would  all  be  impelled,  at  the 
same  moment,  by  the  same  charita.ble  thought!  How 
they  would  all  glide  forward,  during  the  next  quarter  of 
an  hour,  impatient  to  thaw  with  intimacy  what  they  had 
lately  wished  to  freeze  with  politeness,  and  how,  a  little 
later,  each  would  say  to  her  lovely  daughter  as  they 
went  home  —  you  know  Georgey  Wood  —  for  it  would  be 
Georgey  at  once  —  is  such  a  good  fellow,  so  famous  and 
yet  so  modest,  so  unassuming  when  you  think  how 
enormously  rich  he  is.  Is  he  rich,  mamma?  Why, 
yes,  Kitty  —  or  Totty,  or  Dottie,  or  Hattie,  or  Nelly  — 
he  has  all  Tom  Craik's  money,  and  that  gem  of  a  house 
to  live  in,  and  the  pictures  and  everything,  and  your 
cousin  —  or  your  aunt  —  Totty  is  furious  about  it  —  but 


154  THK    TH  Kl.l      1    \  I -l-- 

li*1     is     Midi     ;i     nice     fellow.        There     \V(»ul«l     I|i»t     be     lUUcll 

difficulty    about    getting    a    wife    for    tin-    "nice    fellow" 
then,  thought  Thoma-  < 'raik. 

And  one  or  other  of  these  thing>  might  have  actually 

happened,  precisely  a-  Thomas  t'raik  foresaw  if  that 
ilent  and  worthy  man.  ShemngtOD  Triiiiiii  had  not 
unexpectedly  fallen  ill  during  tin-  spring  that  followed 
(leorge  Weld's  first  BU066M.  Mis  illne»  |TM  -< vere  and 
was  undoubtedly  <-;nis«-d  l>y  too  much  hard  work,  and  \va> 
Mipcrinduccd  hy  a  niodt-ratc  lnit  Unchanging  tastr  t'nr 
canvas-backs,  truttics  boiled  in  madeira  and  an  especial 
brand  of  brut  champagne.  Sherry  recovered,  indeed, 
but  wa>  ordered  t<»  <'arl>bad  in  Uoheiuia  without  delay. 
Totty  found  that  it  was  quite  impossible  for  her  to 
accompany  him.  considering  the  precarious  state  of  her 
brother's  health.  To  leave  Tom  at  Mich  a  time  would 
be  absolutely  heartless.  Sherrin^tou  Trimm  expressed 
a  belief  that  Tom  would  laM  through  the  summer  and 
perhaps  through  several  summers,  as  he  never  did  a 
stroke  of  work  ami  was  as  wiry  as  hairpins.  He  mijjht 
have  added  that  his  brother-in-law  did  not  subsist  upon 
cryptogams  and  brut  wines,  but  Sherry  resolutely  avoided 
suurLrestiug  to  himself  that  the  daily  consumption  of 
those  delicacies  was  in  any  way  connected  with  his  late 
illnexv  His  wife,  however,  shook  her  head,  and  ipiot- 
m'_r  glibly  three  or  four  medical  authorities  assured  him 
that  Tom'-  Mate  was  very  tar  1  rom  sat  isfactory.  Mamie 
might  ,uro  with  her  father,  if  she  pleased,  but  Tott\ 
would  not  leave  the  sinking  ship. 

"Till  the  rats  leave  it."  added  Mr.  Trimm  vicioii>l\  . 
His  wife  gave  him  a  mournfully  seven-  glance  and  left 
him  to  make  his  preparations. 

So  he  went  abroad,  and  was  bu>\  tor  >ome  time  with 
the  improvement  of  his  liver  and  the  reduction  of  hi> 
superfluous  tat.  and  .lohn  I  loud  managed  the  hu>iness  in 
his  stead,  .lohn  l>ond  was  a  very  tine  fellow  and  did 
well  whatever  he  undertook,  so  that  Mr.  Trimm  felt  \\» 
.m\iet\  about  their  joint  affair.-.  .lohn  himself  was  de- 


THE   THREE   FATES.  155 

lighted  to  have  an  opportunity  of  showing-  what  he  could 
do  and  he  looked  forward  to  marrying  Grace  Fearing  in 
the  summer,  considering  that  his  position  was  now  suf 
ficiently  assured.  He  was  far  too  sensible  a  man  to  have 
any  scruples  about  taking  a  rich  wife  while  he  himself 
was  poor,  but  he  was  too  independent  to  live  upon  Grace's 
fortune,  and  as  she  was  so  young  he  had  put  off  the  wed 
ding  until  he  felt  that  he  was  making  enough  money  to 
have  all  that  he  wanted  for  himself  without  her  aid. 
When  they  were  married  she  could  do  what  she  pleased 
without  consulting  him,  and  he  would  do  as  he  liked 
without  asking  her  advice  or  assistance.  He  considered 
that  marriage  could  not  be  happy  where  either  of  the 
couple  was  dependent  upon  the  other  for  necessities  or 
luxuries,  and  that  domestic  peace  depended  largely  on 
the  exclusion  of  all  monetary  transactions  between  man 
and  wife.  John  Bond  was  a  typical  man  of  his  class, 
tall,  fair,  good-looking,  healthy,  active,  energetic  and 
keen.  He  had  never  had  a  day's  illness  nor  an  hour's 
serious  annoyance.  He  had  begun  life  in  the  right  way, 
at  the  right  end  and  in  a  cheerful  spirit.  There  was  no 
morbid  sentimentality  about  him,  no  unnecessary  devel 
opment  of  the  imagination,  no  nervousness,  no  shyness, 
no  underrating  of  other  people  and  no  overrating  of  him 
self.  He  knew  he  could  never  be  great  or  famous,  and 
that  he  could  only  be  John  Bond  as  long  as  he  lived. 
John  Bond  he  would  be,  then,  and  nothing  else,  but  John 
Bond  should  come  to  mean  a  great  deal  before  he  had 
done  with  the  name.  It  should  mean  the  keenest,  most 
hardworking,  most  honest,  most  reliable,  most  clean 
handed  lawyer  in  the  city  of  New  York.  There  was  a 
breezy  atmosphere  of  truth,  soap  and  enterprise  about 
John  Bond. 

Before  going  abroad  Sherrington  Trimm  asked  Tom 
Craik  whether  he  should  tell  his  junior  partner  of  the 
existence  of  a  will  in  favour  of  George  Wood.  Mr.  Craik 
hesitated  before  he  answered. 

'  \Vell,  Sherry,''  he  said  at  last,  "considering  the  un- 


THF.    THKKI.    FATES. 

•  •••rtamt\  of  luiiiiaii  lite,  as  Totty  says,  and  considering 
that  you  an-  more  u>ed  to  Kxtra  I  >ry  t lian  to  ( 'arlsbad 
waters,  you  had  better  t«dl  him.  There  is  no  knowing 
what  tricks  thai  -tuff  may  play  with  you.  Let  it  In-  in 
confidence." 

"()}'  cour>e."  said  M  r.  Triumi.  "I  \vould  rather  truM 
.lolm  l>ond  tlian  trust  m\  self." 

The  same  day  he  imparted  the  secret  to  his  partner. 
The  latter  nodded  gravely  and  thru  fell  into  a  fit  of 
abstraction  which  was  very  rare  with  him.  lie  knew  a 
.urreat  deal  of  the  relation-  existing  between  ('distance 
and  (ieoiLM-  \\'o(.<l.  and  in  liis  frank,  lawyer-like  distrust 
of  people'-  motives,  he  had  shared  trace's  convictions 
abnut  the  man.  though  he  had  al\va\>  tieated  him  with 
indift'ei'enee  and  always  avoidfd  speaking  of  him. 

There  are  some  people  whose  curiosity  finds  relief  in 
a>kin#  questions,  even  though  they  ohtain  no  answer-  to 
their  inquiries.  Totty  was  one  of  the>r.  and  >he  missed 
her  husband  more  than  she  had  thought  possible.  Then- 
had  been  a  sort  of  satisfaction  in  tormenting  him  about 
the  will,  accompanied  by  a  constant  hope  that  he  mi^ht 
one  (lay  forget  his  discretion  in  a  lit  of  an.^er  and  let  out 
the  serret  >he  M,  much  desired  to  learn.  Now,  however, 
there  was  no  one  to  crn^-e\amine  except  Tom  himself. 
and  she  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  asking  him  a 
direct  question  in  the  matter  as  of  trying  t<>  make  holes 
in  a  mill-stone  with  a  darning-needle.  Her  curiosity 
had  therefore  no  outlet  and  as  her  interest  was  so  din-eth 
concerned  at  the  >ame  time,  it  i>  no  wonder  that  she  fell 
into  a  deplorably  unsettled  >tate  of  mind.  For  a  Ion- 
time  nut  a  ray  of  li^ht  illuminated  the  situation,  and 
Totty  actually  he^an  to  ^r«»\v  thin  under  the  pressure  of 
her  constant  anxiety.  At  last  -he  hit  upon  a  plan  tor 
di-co\ n  iii^  the  truth,  so  simple  that  she  wondered  how 
she  had  failed  to  think  ot  it  heton-. 

Nothing  indeed  eoiild  be  moi'e  i-a>\  o|  execution  than 
what  she  contemplated.  Her  husband  kept  in  a  desk  in 
his  room  a  set  of  duplicate  k«'\-  to  the  deed  boxes  in  his 


THE   THREE   FATES.  157 

office.  Among  these  there  must  be  also  the  one  that 
opened  her  brother's  box.  These  iron  cases  were  kept 
in  a  strong  room  that  opened  into  a  small  corridor  be 
tween  Sherrington  Trimm's  private  study  and  the  outer 
rooms  where  the  clerks  worked.  Totty  had  her  own 
box  there,  separate  from  her  husband's  and  she  remem 
bered  that  there  was  one  not  far  from  hers  on  which  was 
painted  her  brother's  name.  She  would  have  no  diffi 
culty  in  entering  the  strong  room  alone,  on  pretence  of 
depositing  a  deed.  Was  she  not  the  wife  of  the  senior 
partner,  and  had  she  not  often  done  the  same  thing 
before?  If  her  brother  had  made  a  new  will,  it  must  be 
in  that  box,  where  he  kept  such  papers  as  possessed  only 
a  legal  value.  One  glance  would  show  her  all  she  wanted 
to  know,  and  her  mind  would  be  at  rest  from  the  wearing 
anxiety  that  now  made  her  life  almost  unbearable. 

She  opened  the  desk  and  had  no  difficulty  in  finding 
the  key  to  her  brother's  box.  It  was  necessary  to  take 
something  in  the  nature  of  a  deed,  to  hold  in  her  hand  as 
an  excuse  for  entering  the  strong  room,  for  she  did  not 
want  to  take  anything  out  of  it,  lest  John  Bond,  who 
would  see  her,  should  chance  to  notice  the  fact  and  should 
mention  it  to  her  husband  when  he  came  back.  On  the 
other  hand,  it  would  not  do  to  deposit  an  empty  enve 
lope,  sealed  and  marked  as  though  it  contained  something 
valuable.  Mrs.  Trimm  never  did  things  by  halves  nor 
was  she  ever  so  unwise  as  to  leave  traces  of  her  tactics 
behind  her.  A  palpable  fraud  like  an  empty  envelope 
might  at  some  future  time  be  used  against  her.  To  take 
any  document  away  from  the  office,  even  if  she  returned 
the  next  day,  would  be  to  expose  herself  to  a  cross-exam 
ination  from  Sherrington  when  he  came  home,  for  he 
knew  the  state  of  her  affairs  and  would  know  also  that 
she  never  needed  to  consult  the  papers  she  kept  at  the 
office.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  have  a  real  docu 
ment  of  some  sort.  Totty  sat  down  and  thought  the 
matter  over  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  she  ordered 
her  carriage  and  drove  down  town  to  the  office  of  a  broker 
who  sometimes  rlid  business  for  her  and  her  husband. 


THE   THREE    FATES. 

"  I  have  made  a  bet."  she  said,  with  a  little  laugh,  "and 
I  want  you  to  help  in.-  to  win  it." 

Tin-  broker  expressed  his  readings.  U)  put  tin-  whole 
New  York  Stock  Kxchange  ;it  her  disposal  in  live  min 
utes,  if  that  were  of  any  use  to  her. 

"Yes,"  said  Totty.  "I  have  bet  tliat  I  will  buy  a 
share  in  something  —  say  tor  a  hundred  dollars  —  that  I 
will  keep  it  a  year  and  that  at  the  end  of  that  time  it 
will  be  worth  more  than  I  gave  lor  it." 

"One  way  of  winning  the  l>et  would  l>e  to  buy  several 
shares  in  different  things  and  declare  the  winner  after 
wards.  One  of  the  lot  will  go  up." 

"That  would  not  be  fair."  said  Totty  with  a  laugh.  "I 
must  say  what  it  is  1  have  l>ought.  Can  you  give,  me 
something  of  the  kind  —  now?  I  want  to  take  it  away 
with  me,  to  show  it." 

The  broker  went  out  and  returned  a  few  minutes  later 
with  what   she   wanted,    a  certificate   of   stock   to   the' 
amount  of  one  hundred  dollars,  in  a  well-known  under 
taking. 

"If  anything  has  a  chance,  this  has,"  said  the  broker, 
putting  it  into  an  envelope  and  handing  it.  to  her.  u  <  Hi 
no,  Mrs.  Trimm  —  never  mind  paying  for  it!"  he  added 
with  a  careless  laugh.  "(Jive  it  back  to  me  when  you 
ha«'«'  done  with  it." 

Hut  Totty  preferred  to  pay  her  money,  and  did  so 
before  she  departed.  Ten  minutes  lat.  r  she  was  at  her 
husband's  office.  Her  heart  heat  a  little  faster  as  she 
asked  John  Hond  to  open  the  strong  room  for  her.  She 
hoped  that  Something  Would  happen  to  occupy  him  while 
•die  was  within. 

"Let  me  help  you."1  he  said,  entering  the  place  with 
her.  The  strung  room  was  lighted  from  above  by  a  small 
skylight  over  a  heavy  grating,  the  boxes  being  arranged 
OH  fthehrea  around  the  walls.  .lolm  iJond  went  straight 
to  the  one  that  belonged  to  Totty  and  moved  it  forward  a 

little    so    that     she    cnilld   open    it.        She   held   her  envelope 

ostentatiously    in  one    i,;m,|    ;m,|    f,.lt    for    her   key  in  her 


THE   THKEE   FATES.  159 

pocket  with  the  other.  She  knew  which  was  hers  and 
which  was  her  brother's,  because  Tom's  had  a  label  fas 
tened  to  it,  with  his  name,  whereas  her  own  had  none. 

"  Thanks, "  she  said,  as  she  turned  the  key  in  the  lock 
and  raised  the  lid.  "Please  do  not  stay  here,  Mr.  Bond, 
I  want  to  look  over  a  lot  of  things  so  as  to  put  this  I  have 
brought  into  the  right  place." 

"Well  —  if  I  cannot  be  of  any  use,"  said  John.  "I 
have  rather  a  busy  day.  Please  call  me  to  shut  the  room 
when  you  have  finished." 

Totty  breathed  more  freely  when  she  was  alone.  She 
could  hear  John  cross  the  corridor  and  enter  the  private 
office.  A  moment  later  everything  was  quiet.  With  a 
quick,  stealthy  movement,  she  slipped  the  other  key  into 
the  box  labelled  "T.  Craik,"  turned  it  and  lifted  the 
cover.  Her  heart  was  beating  violently. 

Fortunately  for  her  the  will  was  the  last  paper  that 
had  been  put  with  the  others  and  lay  on  the  top  of  them 
all.  The  heavy  blue  envelope  was  sealed  and  marked 
"Will,"  with  the  date.  Totty  turned  pale  as  she  held  it 
in  her  hands.  She  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of 
destroying  it,  whatever  it  might  contain,  but  even  to 
break  the  seal  and  read  it  looked  very  like  a  criminal  act. 
On  the  other  hand,  when  she  realised  that  she  held  in  her 
hand  the  answer  to  all  her  questions,  and  that  by  a  turn 
of  the  fingers  she  could  satisfy  all  her  boundless  curiosity, 
she  knew  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  attempt  resistance  in 
the  face  of  such  a  temptation.  She  realised,  indeed,  that 
she  would  not  be  able  to  restore  the  seal,  and  that  she 
must  not  hope  to  hide  the  fact  that  somebody  had  tam 
pered  with  the  will,  but  the  thought  could  not  deter  her 
from  carrying  out  her  intention.  As  she  turned,  her 
sleeve  caught  on  the  corner  of  the  box  Avhich  she  had 
inadvertently  left  open  and  the  lid  fell  with  a  sharp  snap. 
Instantly  John  Bond's  footstep  was  heard  in  the  corridor. 

Totty  had  barely  time  to  withdraw  the  key  from  her 
brother's  box  and  to  bury  the  will  under  her  own  papers 
when  John  entered  the  room. 


l»iU  I  III.    I  ill:l.i.    I    \  i  i  v. 

"Oli!"  he  exclaimed  in  evident  surprise,  "  I  thought 
I  heard  you  .shut  your  box.  and  that  you  had  finished." 

"No,"  said  Totty  in  an  unsteady  \oire.  landing  her 
pale  face  over  her  documents.  "The  lid  tell,  hut  I 
opened  it  again.  I  will  call  you  when  I  come  out." 

John  returned  to  his  work  without  any  suspicion  •  >( 
what  had  hap}>ened.  Then  Totty  extracted  a  hairpin 
from  the  coils  of  her  brown  hair  and  tried  to  litt  tin-  seal 
of  the  will  from  the  paper  to  whieli  it  was  so  firmly  at 
tached.  But  she  only  succeeded  in  damaging  it.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  tear  the  envelope.  Still 
using  her  hairpin  she  slit  open  one  end  of  the  cover  and 
drew  out  the  document. 

When  she  knew  the  contents,  her  face  expressed  un 
bounded  surprise.  It  had  never  entered  her  head  that 
Tom  could  leave  his  money  to  George  Wood  of  all  people 
in  the  world. 

"What  a  fool  I  have  been!"  she  exclaimed  under  her 
breath. 

Then  she  began  to  reflect  upon  the  conse.piences  of 
what  she  had  done,  and  her  curiosity  being  .satisfied,  her 
fears  began  to  assume  serious  proportions.  Was  it  a 
criminal  act  that  she  had  committed1.'  She  ga/ed  rather 
helplessly  at  the  torn  envelope.  It  \\oiild  be  impossible 

to    restore    It.        It   Would    be   e<piall\     i  !ll  J  ins-si  ble   to    pllt     the 

will  back  into  the  box.  IU..M-  and  unsealed,  without  her 
husband's  noticing  the  fact  the  next  time  he  had  occa 
sion  to  look  into  Tom  ('raik's  papers.  He  would  remem 
ber  very  well  that  he  had  sealed  it  and  marked  it  on  the 
outside.  The  envelope,  at  least,  mu>t  disappear  at  onrc. 
Shi-  crumpled  it  into  as  small  a  compa»  a>  p«.>sible  and 
put  it  into  her  pocket.  It  would  lie  very  simple  to  burn 
it  as  MM m  as  she  was  at  home.  lint  how  to  dispos,-  ,,!' 
the  will  itself  was  a  much  harder  matter.  She  dared  not 
dertrOJ  that  aU,,.  for  that  might  turn  out  to  be  a  delib 
erate  theft,  "i  fraud,  or  whatever  the  law  called  such 
de.-ds.  (  »u  the  other  hand,  her  lin»t  her  miurht  ask  I'm-  it 
at  an\  time  and  if  it  were  not  in  the  box  it  could  not  be 


THE   THREE    FATES.  161 

forthcoming,  and  her  husband  would  get  into  trouble.  It 
would  be  easy  for  Tom  to  suspect  that  Sherrington  Trimm 
had  destroyed  the  will,  in  order  that  his  wife,  as  next  of 
kin  and  only  heir-at-law  should  get  the  fortune.  She 
thought  that,  as  it  was,  Tom  had  shown  an  extraordinary 
belief  in  human  nature,  though  when  she  thought  of  her 
husband's  known  honesty  she  understood  that  nobody 
could  mistrust  him.  He  himself  would  doubtless  be  the 
first  to  discover  the  loss.  What  would  he  do?  He  would 
go  to  Tom  and  make  him  execute  a  duplicate  of  the 
will  that  was  lost.  Meanwhile,  and  in  case  Tom  died 
before  Sherrington  came  back,  Totty  could  put  the  orig 
inal  in  some  safe  place,  where  she  could  cause  it  to  be 
found  if  necessary  —  behind  one  of  those  boxes,  for  in 
stance,  or  in  some  corner  of  the  strong  room.  Nothing 
that  was  locked  up  between  those  four  walls  could  ever 
be  lost.  If  Tom  died,  she  would  of  course  be  told  that 
a  will  had  been  made  and  was  missing.  John  Bond  would 
come  to  her  in  great  distress,  and  she  would  come  down 
to  the  office  and  help  in  the  search.  The  scheme  did  not 
look  very  diplomatic,  but  she  was  sure  that  there  was 
nothing  else  to  be  done.  It  was  the  only  way  in  which 
she  could  avoid  committing  a  crime  while  avoiding  also 
the  necessity  of  confessing  to  her  husband  that  she  had 
committed  an  act  of  supreme  folly. 

She  folded  the  pjiper  together  and  looked  about  the 
small  room  for  a  place  in  which  to  hide  it.  As  she  was 
looking  she  thought  she  heard  John  Bond's  step  again. 
She  had  no  time  to  lose  for  she  would  not  be  able  to  get 
rid  of  him  if  he  entered  the  strong  room  a  third  time. 
To  leave  it  on  one  of  the  shelves  would  be  foolish,  for  it 
might  be  found  at  any  time.  She  could  see  no  chink  or 
crack  into  which  to  drop  it,  and  John  was  certainly  com 
ing.  Totty  in  her  desperation  thrust  the  paper  into  the 
bosom  of  her  dress,  shut  up  her  own  box  noisily  and 
went  out. 

She  thought  that  John  Bond  looked  at  her  very  curi 
ously  when  she  went  away,  though  the  impression  might 

M 


i  UK  THKKI.    i   \  i  •& 

well  )><•  tlit-  result  (.i  her  own  guilty  (ears.  A  •>  a  matter 
tit'  t;u-t  lit-  was  Mirprised  h\  her  extreme  pallor  and  MTM 
i.n  tin-  point  of  asking  it'  she  were  ill.  I'.ut  In-  reflected 
that  the  strong  room  was  a  chilly  place  ami  that  she 
might  be  only  feeling  cold.  an<l  In-  held  his  tongue, 

The  ji:i|n-r  seemed  to  Inirn  her,  and  she  hm^-d  to  lw* 
in  her  own  house  wlii-n-  she  could  at  least  lock  it  up 
until  she  could  com. -  to  soiii.-  \vi^f  d«-n>i.,ii  in  n-^anl  to 
it.  She  leaned  bark  in  lu-r  cai-ria^c  in  an  a^.ny  ot  n«-r- 
vous  fear.  What  if  .Mm  I'.ond  should  chance  to  be  the 
one  who  made  the  discovery1.'  lie  probably  knew  of  tin- 
existence  of  the  will,  and  he  very  probably  had  seen  it 
and  knew  where  it  W;1>.  jt  was  strange  that  she  had 
not  thought  of  thai.  If.  for  instance,  it  happened  that 
lie  Heeded  to  look  at  BOOM  of  her  brot  he r's  pa  | ».-rs  t  hat 
Very  day.  would  he  not  notice  the  loss  and  suspect  her1.' 
Uter  all,  he  knew  as  well  as  any  one  what  she  had  to 
;.rain  by  destroying  the  will,  if  he  knew  what  it  con 
tained.  How  mncli  iH'tter  it  would  have  been  to  put  it 
back  in  its  place  even  without  the  envelope!  How 
much  better  anything  would  be  than  to  feel  that  she 
might  be  found  out  bv  .John  Piond! 

She   was   already   far  up  town,  but   in  her  distress  she 

did  not  recognise  her  whereabouts,    and  leaning   forward 

.slightly    looked    through    the    window.       .U    late    would 

have  it.   the  only  person    near  the   carriage    in   the   stive! 

<reorge  Wood,  who  had  rero^ni-ed  it  and  W9M  trvinu 

i  a  glimpse  of  herself.       When  he  sa\v  her.  he  bowed 

and  smiled,    just  as  he  always  did.      T.,tty  nodded  hastih 

and    fell    back    into    her    >eat.      A    feeling   of   sickenin- 

despair  came  over  her.  and  she  closed  her  6V68, 


THE    THKEE    FATES.  lt)3 


CHAPTER   XII. 

George  Wood's  reputation  spread  rapidly.  He  had 
arrested  the  attention  of  the  public,  and  the  public  was 
both  ready  and  willing  to  be  amused  by  him.  He  had 
finished  the  second  of  his  books  soon  after  the  appear 
ance  of  the  first,  and  he  had  found  110  difficulty  in  selling 
the  manuscript  outright  upon  his  own  terms.  It  was 
published  about  the  time  when  the  events  took  place 
which  have  been  described  in  the  last  chapter,  and  it 
obtained  a  wide  success.  It  was,  indeed,  wholly  different 
from  its  predecessor  in  character  and  presented  a  strong 
contrast  to  it.  The  first  had  been  full  of  action,  pas 
sionate,  strange,  unlike  the  books  of  the  day.  The 
second  was  the  result  of  much  thought  and  lacked  almost 
altogether  the  qualities  that  had  given  such  phenomenal 
popularity  to  the  first.  It  was  a  calm  book,  almost 
destitute  of  plot  and  of  dramatic  incidents.  It  had  been 
polished  and  adorned  to  the  best  of  the  young  writer's 
ability,  he  had  put  into  it  the  most  refined  of  his  thoughts, 
he  had  filled  it  with  the  sayings  of  characters  more  than 
half  ideal.  He  had  believed  in  it  while  he  was  writing 
it,  but  he  was  disappointed  with  it  when  it  was  finished. 
He  had  intended  to  bind  together  a  nosegay  of  sweet- 
scented  flowers  about  a  central  rose,  and  when  he  had 
finished,  his  nosegay  seemed  to  him  artificial,  the  blos 
soms  looked  to  him  as  though  they  were  without  stems, 
tied  to  dry  sticks,  and  the  scent  of  them  had  no  fresh 
ness  for  his  nostrils.  Nevertheless  he  knew  that  he  had 
given  to  his  work  all  that  he  possessed  of  beauty  and 
refinement  in  the  storehouse  of  his  mind,  and  he  looked 
upon  the  venture  as  final  in  deciding  his  future  career. 
It  is  worse  to  meet  with  failure  on  the  publication  of  a 
second  book,  when  the  first  has  taken  the  world  by  sur 
prise,  than  it  is  to  fail  altogether  at  the  very  beginning. 
Many  a  polished  scholar  has  produced  one  good  volume ; 


lt)4  I  UK      !  lllll.l.     1   A  I  R& 

many  a  refined  ami  spiritual  intelligence  has  painted  OHM 
Lovely  SOene  and  dropped  the  brushes  !'«»r  ever,  or  taken 
them  up  only  to  blotch  and  blur  incongruous  colours 
upon  a  spiritless  outline,  searching  with  Mind  e\es  for 
the  light  that  shone  but  once  and  can  never  .shine  a^ain. 
Many  have  shot  one  arrow  in  the  air  and  have  hit  the 
central  mark,  whose  lingers  scarce  knew  how  to  h<>ld  the 
bow.  The  first  trial  is  one  of  half-reasoned,  hall-inspired 
talent;  the  second  shows  the  artist's  hand;  the  third 
and  all  that  follow  are  works  done  in  the  competit  imi 
between  master  and  master,  to  which  neither  apprentice 
nor  idle  lover  of  the  art  can  be  admitted.  He  whose 
first  great  effort  lias  been  successful,  and  whose  second 
disappoints  no  one  but  himself,  may  safely  feel  that  he 
has  found  out  his  element  and  known  his  own  strength. 
He  will  perhaps  turn  out  only  a  dull  master  at  his  craft 
as  years  go  on,  or  he  may  be  but  a  second-rate  artist,  but 
his  apprenticeship  has  been  com pleted  and  he  will  hence 
forth  be  judged  by  the  same  standard  as  other  artists  and 
masters. 

George  Wood  had  followed  his  own  instinct  in  lavish 
ing  so  much  care  and  thought  and  pains  upon  the  1 k  that 

was  now  to  appear,  and  his  instinct  had  not  deceived  him. 
though  when  he  saw  tin-  result  he  feared  that  he  had 
made  the  threat  false  step  t  hat  is  irn-t  rievable.  TInMi-h 
many  were  ready  to  accept  his  work  on  any  terms  he 
was  pleased  to  name.  \  et  he  held  hack  his  manuscript  tor 
many  weeks,  hesitating  to  give  it  to  the  world.  The 
memory  of  his  first  enthusiasms  blended  in  his  mind  \\  ith 
the  beauties  of  tale-  yet  untold  and  darkened  in  his  6J6I 
the  p<»li>h  of  the  ]. resent  work.  Constance  admired  it 
•diii-lx.  saying  that,  although  not  liing  could  ever  be 
i«i  her  like  the  first,  this  was  so  different  in  every  way. 
and  yet  BO  •_r"<|d.  that  no  unpleasant  comparisons  could 

be   made   between   the  t  Wo.        'Then   <  ienr^e  took   it   to  Johll' 

s«.n  who  kept  it  a  long  time  and   would   ^j\(.   no  opinion 
about   it  until  he  had  read  every  word  it  contained. 
"  This  settles  it."  he  said  at    Last. 


THE   THREE   FATES.  165 

"For  better  or  for  worse?7'  George  asked,  looking  at 
the  pale  young  man's  earnest  face. 

"For  better,"  Johnson  answered  without  hesitation. 
"You  are  a  novelist.  It  is  not  so  broad  as  a  church- 
door,  nor  so  deep  as  a  well  —  but  it  will  serve.  You 
will  never  regret  having  published  it." 

So  the  book  went  to  the  press  and  in  due  time  appeared, 
was  tasted,  criticised  and  declared  to  be  good  by  a  major 
ity  of  judges,  was  taken  up  by  the  public,  was  discussed, 
liked  and  obtained  a  large  sale.  George  was  congratu 
lated  by  all  his  friends  in  terms  of  the  greatest  enthusi 
asm  and  he  received  so  many  invitations  to  dinner  as 
made  him  feel  that  either  his  digestion  or  his  career,  or 
both,  must  perish  in  the  attempt  to  cope  with  them. 
The  dinner-party  of  to-day,  considered  as  the  reward  of 
merit  and  the  expression  of  good  feeling,  is  no  novelty 
in  the  history  of  the  world's  society.  Little  Benjamin 
was  expected  to  eat  twelve  times  as  much  as  any  of  his 
big  brothers  because  Joseph  liked  him,  and  the  successful 
man  of  to-day  is  often  treated  with  the  same  kindly, 
though  destructive  liberality.  ]S"o  one  would  think  it 
enough  to  ask  him  to  tea  and  overwhelm  him  with  the 
praises  of  a  select  circle  of  fashionable  people.  He  must 
be  made  to  eat  in  order  that  he  may  understand  from  the 
fulness  of  his  own  stomach  the  fulness  of  his  admirer's 
heart.  To  heap  good  things  upon  the  plate  of  genius 
has  been  in  all  times  considered  the  most  practical  way 
of  expressing  the  public  admiration  —  and  in  times  not 
long  past  there  was  indeed  a  practical  reason  for  such 
expression  of  goodwill,  in  that  genius  was  liable  to  be 
very  hungry  even  after  it  had  been  universally  acknowl 
edged.  The  world  lias  more  than  once  bowed  down  from 
a  respectful  distance,  to  the  possessor  of  a  glorious  intel 
ligence,  who  in  his  heart  would  have  preferred  a  solid 
portion  of  bread  and  cheese  to  the  perishable  garlands  of 
flowers  scattered  at  his  feet,  or  to  the  less  corruptible 
monuments  of  bronze  and  stone  upon  which  his  country 
men  were  ready  to  lavish  their  gold  after  he  was  dead  of 
starvation. 


|  m.     i  |||;|.|.     I  ATES. 

A  change  has  come  over  tin-  world  of  late,  and  it  mav 
be  tliat  writers  themselves  have  bo«-n  tin-  cause  of  it.  It 
\S  certain  that  since  those  who  live  by  tin-  pen  have  made 
it  their  business  to  amuse  rather  than  to  admonish  and 
instruct  their  substance  lias  been  singularlv  increased 
and  their  path  has  been  made  enviably  smooth.  Their 
shadows  not  only  wax  and  follow  tin-  outline  of  a  plcas- 
ant  rotundity,  but  they  arc  < -a >t  upon  marble  pavements. 
inlaid  floors  and  Kastern  carpets,  instead  of  upon  the 
dingy  walls  and  greasy  mud  of  Grub  Street.  Tin-  star 
of  the  public  amuser  is  in  the  ascendant,  and  his  >%  Part 
of  Fortune"  is  high  in  the  mid-heaven. 

It  has  been  said  that  nothing  succeeds  like  iUOOMfl, 
and  George  very  soon  IM-^HI  to  tind  out  the  truth  of  tin- 
saying.  He  was  ignorant  of  the  strange  possibilities  of 
wealth  that  were  in  store  for  him.  and  the  pn^eut  was 
sufficient  for  all  his  desires,  and  far  exceeded  his  former 
hopes.  The  days  were  gone  by  when  he  had  looked 
upon  his  marriage  with  Constance  rYaring  as  a  delicious 
vision  that  could  never  be  realised,  and  to  contemplate 
which,  even  without  hope,  seemed  to  be  a  clangorous 
piece  of  presumption.  He  had  now  a  future  before  him. 
brilliant,  perhaps,  but  a>smvdly  hmnmralih*  and  sue. •«•— - 
ful.  At  his  age  and  with  his  health  and  strength  tin- 
possibility  of  his  being  broken  down  by  overwork  or 
illness  did  not  pmenl  it-. -It  to  him.  and,  if  it  had.  he 
could  very  well  have  afforded  to  disregard  it  in  making 
his  calculations.  Tin-  world's  lace  showed  him  one 

glorious  catalogue  of  hopes  and  he  felt  that  he  was  the 

man  to  realise  them  all. 

And  now,  too.  the  first  "f  May  wa>  approaching  again 
and  he  looked  forward  to  receiving  a  final  aiiM\er  from 
<'on>taiice.  H«-r  manner  had  changed  little  towards  him 
during  the  winter,  but  lie  thought  that  little  had  been 
for  the  better.  He  never  doubted,  now.  that  she  \\as 
mo>t  sincerely  attached  to  him  nor  that  it  depended  on 
an\  thing  but  her  own  fancy,  to  giy«  n  name  to  that 
attachment  ;,,id  call  it  love.  Surely  the  trial  had  lasted 


THE   THREE    FATES.  167 

long  enough,  surely  she  must  know  her  own  mind  now, 
after  so  many  months  of  waiting.  It  was  two  years 
since  he  had  first  told  her  that  he  loved  her,  a  year  had 
passed  away  since  she  had  admitted  that  she  loved  him 
a  little,  and  now  the  second  year,  the  one  she  had  asked 
for  as  a  period  of  probation  had  spent  itself  likewise, 
bringing  with  it  for  George  the  first  great  success  of  his 
life  and  doubling,  trebling  his  chances  of  happiness. 
His  growing  reputation  was  a  bond  between  them,  of 
which  they  had  forged  every  link  together.  Her  praise 
had  stimulated  his  strength,  her  delicate  and  refined 
taste  had  often  guided  the  choice  of  his  thoughts,  his 
power  of  language  had  found  words  for  what  was  in  the 
hearts  of  both.  George  could  no  more  fancy  himself  as 
working  without  consulting  Constance  than  he  could 
imagine  what  life  would  be  without  sight  or  hearing. 
Her  charm  was  upon  him  and  penetrated  all  he  did,  her 
beauty  was  the  light  by  which  he  saw  other  women,  her 
voice  the  music  that  made  harmony  of  all  other  sounds. 
He  loved  her  now,  as  women  have  rarely  been  loved,  for 
love  had  taken  root  in  his  noble  and  generous  nature,  as 
a  rare  seed  in  a  virgin  soil,  beautiful  from  the  first  and 
gaining  beauty  as  it  grew  in  strength  and  fulness  of 
proportion.  His  heart  had  never  been  disturbed  before, 
by  anything  resembling  true  passion,  there  were  no 
reminiscences  to  choke  the  new  growth,  no  dry  and 
withered  stems  about  which  the  new  love  must  twine 
itself  until  its  spreading  leaves  and  clasping  tendrils 
made  a  rich  foliage  to  cover  the  dead  tree.  He,  she, 
the  world,  love,  reputation,  were  all  young  together,  all 
young  and  fresh,  and  full  of  the  power  to  grow.  To 
think  that  the  prospect  of  such  happiness  should  be 
blighted,  the  hope  of  such  perfect  bliss  disappointed 
was  beyond  the  power  of  George's  imagination. 

The  time  was  drawing  near  when  he  was  to  have  his 
answer.  He  had  often  done  violence  to  himself  of  late 
in  abstaining  from  all  question  of  her  love.  Earlier  in 
the  year  he  had  once  or  twice  returned  to  his  old  way  of 


168  THE    TURK?:   FATES. 


with  her.  but  .she  had  seemed  displeased  and  had 
]»ut  him  off',  answering  that  tin-  first  of  May  was  time 
enough  and  that  she  would  tell  liim  thru.  Hr  had  no 
means  of  knowing  what  was  passing  in  her  mind.  t'«»r  sin- 
was  almost  always  the  samr  Constance  he  ha<l  known  so 
long,  gentle,  symj)athising,  ready  with  encouragement. 
enthusiastic  concerning  what  he  did  well.  suggestive 
when  he  was  in  doubt,  thoughtful  when  his  taste  did  not 
agree  with  hers.  Looking  back  upon  those  long  months 
of  intimacy  George  knew  that  she  had  never  hound  her 
self,  never  uttered  a  promise  of  any  sort,  never  directly 
given  him  to  understand  that  she  would  consent  to  be 
his  wife.  And  yet  her  whole  life  seemed  to  him  to 
have  been  one  promise  since  he  had  known  her  and  it 
was  treason,  in  his  judgment,  to  suspect  her  of  insin- 
oerity. 

In  the  last  days  of  April,  lie  saw  less  of  her  than 
usual,  though  he  could  scarcely  tell  why.  More  than 
once,  when  he  had  hoped  to  find  her  alone,  there  had 
been  visitors  with  her,  or  her  sister  had  been  present. 
and  he  had  not  been  able  to  exchange  a  word  with  her 
without  being  overheard.  Indeed,  when  (Irace  was 
established  in  the  room  he  generally  made  his  visits  M 
short  as  possible.  There  was  something  in  the  Atmos 
phere  of  the  house,  too,  that  filled  him  with  evil 
forebodings.  Constance  often  seemed  abstrartrd  and 
preoccupied  ;  there  appeared  to  br  a  Letter  understanding 
between  the  sisters  in  regard  to  himself  than  formerly. 
and  (trace's  manner  had  changed.  In  the  old  days  of 
their  acquaintance  she  had  taken  little  pains  to  conceal 
hei-  dislike  after  she  had  once  made  up  her  mind  that 
GeOfge  loved  her  BlSter,  her  givrting  had  been  almost 
haughty,  her  \\ords  had  hrrii  1'rw  and  generally  ironical. 
her  satisfaction  at  his  departure  ne.-dles.slv  apparent. 
huringthe  last  month  she  had  relaxed  the  severity  of 
her  behaviour,  instead  of  treating  him  more  harshly  as 
he  had  expe.-t.  -d  and  secretly  hoped.  With  the  unerring 
instinct  lit'  a  man  who  loves  deeply,  concerning  i-vn-y 


THE   THREE   FATES.  169 

one  except  the  object  of  his  love,  George  had  read  the 
signs  of  the  times  in  the  face  of  his  old  enemy,  and 
distrusted  her  increasing  benignity.  She,  at  least,  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  Constance  would  not  marry 
him,  and  seeing  that  the  necessity  for  destruction  was 
decreasing,  she  allowed  the  sun  of  her  smiles  to  pene 
trate  the  dark  storm-clouds  of  her  sullen  anger.  George 
would  have  preferred  any  convulsion  of  the  elements  to 
this  threatened  calm. 

Constance  Fearing  was  in  great  distress  of  mind.  She 
had  not  forgotten  the  date,  nor  had  she  any  intention  of 
letting  it  pass  without  fulfilling  her  engagement  and 
giving  George  the  definite  answer  he  had  so  patiently 
expected.  The  difficulty  was,  to  know  what  that  answer 
should  be.  Her  indecision  could  not  be  ascribed  to  her 
indolence  in  studying  the  question.  It  had  been  con 
stantly  before  her,  demanding  immediate  solution  and 
tormenting  her  with  its  difficulties  throughout  many 
long  months.  Her  conscientious  love  of  truth  had  forced 
her  to  examine  it  much  more  closety  than  she  would 
have  chosen  to  do  had  she  yielded  to  her  inclinations. 
Her  own  happiness  was  no  doubt  vitally  concerned,  but 
the  consideration  of  absolute  loyalty  and  honesty  must 
be  first  and  before  all  things.  The  tremendous  impor 
tance  of  the  conclusion  now  daily  more  imminent  appalled 
her  and  frightened  her  out  of  her  simplicity  into  the 
mazes  of  a  vicious  logic ;  and  she  found  the  labyrinth  of 
her  difficulties  further  complicated  in  that  its  ways  were 
intersected  by  the  by-paths  of  her  religious  meditations. 
When  her  reason  began  to  grow  clear,  she  suddenly 
found  it  opposed  to  some  one  of  a  set  of  infallible  rules 
by  which  she  had  undertaken  to  guide  her  whole  exist 
ence.  To-day  she  prayed  to  heaven,  and  grace  was 
given  her  to  marry  George.  To-morrow  she  would  exam 
ine  her  heart  and  ascertain  that  she  could  never  love 
him  as  he  deserved.  Could  she  marry  him  when  he  was 
to  give  so  much  and  she  had  so  little  to  offer?  That 
would  be  manifestly  wrong;  but  in  that  case  why  had 


170  THE   THREE    FATES. 

her  prayer  seemed  to  be  answ. -red  so  distinctly  by  an 
un pulse  from  tin*  heart?  She  was  evidently  not  in  a 
state  of  gltoe,  since  she  was  inspired  to  do  what  was 
wrong.  Selfishness  must  be  at  tin-  bottom  of  it.  and 
selfishness,  as  it  was  tin-  sin  about  which  she  knew  most, 
was  the  one  within  her  comprehension  which  she  the 
most  sincerely  abhorred.  l>ut  if  her  impulse  to  many 
George  was  seltish.  was  it  imt  the  direct  uttrrancr  of 
her  heart,  and  might  this  not  be  tin-  only  rase  in  lit.-  in 
which  she  might  frankly  follow  her  own  wishes?  George 
loved  her  most  truly.  If  she  felt  that  she  wished  to 
marry  him,  was  it  imt  because  slie  loved  liim?  There 
was  tin1  point,  again,  confronting  her  just  where  she  had 
hrgiin  the  round  of  self-torture.  Did  she  love  him? 
What  was  the  test  of  true  love?  Would  she  die  for 
him?  Dying  for  people  was  theatrieal  and  out  of  fa^h- 
ion,  as  she  had  often  been  told.  It  was  much  more  noble 
to  live  for  those  one  loved  than  to  die  for  them.  Could 
she  live  for  George?  What  did  the  words  mean?  Had 
she  not  lived  for  him.  said  her  heart,  during  the  last 
y6&r,  if  not  longer?  What  nonsense,  exelaimed  her 
reason —  as  if  giving  a  little  eiirouragrmriit  and  a  givut. 
deal  of  advice  could  he  called  living  for  a  man  !  It  meant 
more  than  that,  it  meant  so  mueh  to  her  that  she  frit  surr 
she  could  never  accomplish  it.  Then-tore  she  did  not 
love  him.  and  it  must  all  romr  to  an  end  at  oner. 

She  reproached  herself  bitterly  for  her  wrakurs>  t  hat 
had  lasted  so  long.  She  was  a  mere  flirt,  a  heartless  girl 
who  had  ruined  a  man's  life  and  happiness  ivrkl"^l\. 
hrrauM-  she  did  not  know  her  own  mind.  She  would  In- 
brave  DOW,  at  Ia8t,  lirtorr  it  Wa>  i|llitr  too  late.  She 

would  confers  her  taiilt  and  tell  him  how  despicable  she 
thought  herself,  how  she  repented  of  her  evil  ways, 
how  she  would  be  his  best  and  iiriurst  friend,  his  sister. 
anything  that  she  could  be  to  him.  except  his  wifr.  He 
would  lie  hurt,  pained,  heart  broken  for  a  while,  but  he 
would  see  how  much  belter  it  had  been  to  speak  the  truth. 
T.iit  iii  the  midst  of  her  passionate  self-accusation,  the 


THE   THREE    FATES.  171 

thought  of  her  own  state  after  she  should  have  put  him 
away  for  ever,  presented  itself  with  painful  distinctness. 
Whether  she  loved  him  or  not,  he  was  a  part  of  her  life 
and  she  felt  that  she  could  not  do  without  him.  For  one 
moment  she  allowed  herself  to  think  of  his  face  if  she 
told  him  that  she  consented  to  their  union  at  last,  she 
could  see  the  happy  smile  she  loved  so  well  and  hear  the 
vibrating  tones  of  the  voice  that  moved  her  more  than 
other  voices.  Then,  to  her  inexpressible  shame,  there 
arose  before  her  visions  of  another  kind,  and  notably  the 
face  of  Johnson,  the  hardworking  critic.  All  at  once 
George  seemed  to  be  surrounded  by  a  host  of  people 
whom  she  did  not  know  and  whom  she  did  not  want  to 
know,  men  whom,  as  she  remembered  to  have  thought 
before,  she  would  not  have  wished  to  see  at  her  table, 
yet  friends  of  his,  faithful  friends  —  Johnson  was  one  at 
least  —  to  whom  he  owed  much  and  whom  he  would  not 
allow  to  slip  out  of  his  existence  because  he  had  married 
Constance  Fearing.  She  blushed  scarlet,  though  she 
was  alone,  and  passionate  tears  of  anger  at  herself  burst 
from  her  eyes.  To  think  of  that  miserable  consideration, 
she  must  be  the  most  contemptible  of  women.  Truly,  the 
baseness  of  the  human  heart  was  unfathomable  and  shore 
less  as  the  ocean  of  space  itself!  Truly,  she  did  not  love 
him,  if  she  could  think  such  thoughts,  and  she  must  tell 
him  so,  cost  what  it  might. 

The  last  night  came,  preceding  the  day  on  which  she 
had  promised  to  give  him  her  decisive  answer.  She  had 
written  him  a  word  to  say  that  he  was  expected,  and  she 
sat  down  in  her  own  room  to  fight  the  struggle  over  again 
for  the  last  time.  The  morrow  was  to  decide,  she  thought, 
and  yet  it  was  impossible  to  come  to  any  conclusion.  AYliv 
had  she  not  set  the  period  at  two  years  instead  of  one? 
Surely,  in  twelve  months  more  she  would  have  known 
her  own  mind,  or  at  least  have  seen  what  course  to  pur 
sue.  Step  by  step  she  advanced  once  more  into  the  sea 
of  her  difficulties,  striving  to  keep  her  intelligence  free 
from  prejudice,  and  yet  hoping  that  her  heart  would 


172  THE    THREK    1    \T!  •>. 


clearly.  Hut  it  WBfl  of  no  086,  the  labyrinth  wa> 
confiiM-d  tlian  ever.  tin-  liirht  less.  and  her  strength 
more  unsteady.  It'  she  thought.  it  seemed  a>  though  her 
thoughts  would  drive  her  mail,  it'  she  prayed.  her  prayer^ 

were  confuted  and  senseless. 

"I  cannot  marry  liiin.  I  cannot.  I  caniK.t!"  she  cried 
at  last,  utterly  worn  out  with  fatigue  and  anxiety. 

She  threw  hersrlt'  ii]»«>n  h«-r  pillows  and  tri»-d  to  n-^t. 
while  her  own  words  >till  i-ani:  in  h«-i-  «-ai->.  Sh«-  >l«-pt  a 
littl--  and  .sin-  uttered  the  same  cry  in  her  sleep.  l',y  I'm-er 
of  conscious  and  uneonseiotis  repetiti(.n  ot  the  phrase,  it 
became  mechanised  ;md  imposed  itself  upon  her  will. 
When  the  morning  In-ukr.  she  knew  that  she  had  re 
solved  not  to  marry  GtoorgQ  \\"ood.  and  that  her  resolu 
tion  Was  irre\  oe;il)le. 

To  tell  him  so  was  a  v«-r\  ditter.-nt  mattef.  She  t;i-e\\- 
cold  as  she  thought  ot  the  scene  that  \va>  Itetmr  her.  and 
became  conscious  that  her  nerve^  wrere  not  e.pial  to  >ucl, 
a  >train.  She  tancied  that  the  decision  she  had  reached 
had  been  the  result  of  her  strength  n,  her  st  ruur.urh'  with 
herself.  In  reality  she  had  succuml»ed  to  her  «»wu  weak- 
D6M  and  had  aliamloned  the  conte>t.  teelin^  that  it,  was 
easier  to  do  an\  tiling  nc'^iit  i\  e  rather  than  to  commit  her 
self  to  a  holiday-  from  which  she  mi^ht  MHIH-  day  wish 
to  escape  when  it  should  he  too  hite.  With  a  little  more 
firmness  of  character  she  would  have  l>ecn  able  to  shake 
off  her  doubts  ;md  to  >ee  that  >he  really  h>\ed  (n-or-e 
vei-y  si  nee  rely,  and  that  t«»  hoiiat*-  \\  as  to  sa.-ntice  e\  er\ 
to  a  morbid  tear  of  otiendni'_:  her  now  over-delicate 
l-'.\-eii  now.  if  she  could  have  known  herself. 
•she  would  have  realised  that  she  had  by  no  means  Driven 
up  all  love  for  the  man  who  loved  her.  nor  all  expec 
tation  of  ultimately  becoming  l,js  wife.  She  would  have 
behaved  \.-ry  differently  if  >he  had  been  sure  that  -he 
wax  burning  her  ship>  and  cuttinur  «»lf  all  po>sibility  of  a 
rettirn.  or  if  >he  had  known  the  character  of  the  man 
with  whom  she  had  to  deal.  She  had  pa-^ed  thi'oii^h  a 
sort  of  nervous  crisis,  and  her  resolution  was  in  the  main, 


THE   THREE    FATES.  173 

a  concession  to  her  desire  to  gain  time.  In  making  it  she 
had  thrown  down  her  arms  and  given  up  the  fight.  The 
reaction  that  followed  made  it  seem  impossible  for  her 
to  face  such  a  scene  as  must  ensue. 

At  first  it  struck  her  that  the  best  way  of  getting  out 
of  the  difficulty  would  be  to  write  to  George  and  tell  him 
her  decision  in  as  few  words  as  possible,  begging  him  to 
come  and  see  her  a  week  later,  when  she  would  do  her 
best  to  explain  to  him  the  many  and  good  reasons  which 
had  contributed  to  the  present  result.  This  idea,  how 
ever,  she  soon  abandoned.  It  would  seem  most  unkind 
to  deal  such  a  blow  so  suddenly  and  then  expect  him  to 
wait  so  long  before  enlightening  him  further  upon  the 
subject.  Face  him  herself,  she  could  not.  She  might  be 
weak,  she  thought,  and  she  was  willing  to  admit  it;  it 
was  only  to  add  another  unworthiness  to  the  long  list 
with  which  she  was  ready  to  accuse  herself.  She  could 
not,  and  she  would  not  tell  George  herself.  The  only 
person  who  could  undertake  to  bear  her  message  was 
Grace. 

She  felt  very  kindly  disposed  to  Grace,  that  morning. 
There  was  a  satisfaction  in  feeling  that  she  could  think 
of  any  one  without  the  necessity  of  considering  the  ques 
tion  of  her  marriage.  Besides,  Grace  had  opposed  her 
increasing  liking  for  George  from  the  beginning,  and  had 
warned  her  that  she  would  never  marry  him.  Grace  had 
been  quite  right,  and  as  Constance  was  feeling  particu 
larly  humble  just  then,  she  thought  it  would  be  agreeable 
to  her  pride,  if  she  confessed  the  superiority  of  Grace's 
judgment.  She  could  accuse  herself  before  her  sister  of 
all  her  misdeeds  without  the  fear  of  witnessing  George's 
violent  grief.  Moreover  it  would  be  better  for  George, 
too,  since,  he  would  be  obliged  to  contain  himself  when 
speaking  to  her  sister  as  he  would  certainly  not  control 
his  feelings  in  an  interview  with  herself.  To  be  short, 
Constance  was  willing  in  that  moment  to  be  called  a 
coward,  rather  than  face  the  man  she  had  wronged.  Her 
courage  had  failed  her  altogether  and  she  was  being  car- 


174  THE   THREE    FAT!  & 

ned  rapidly  down  stream  from  one  concession  to  another, 
while  still  trying  to  give  an  air  of  rect  itude  and  self- 
sacritice  to  all  her  actions.  She  was  preparing  ;m  abyss 
of  well-merited  self-contempt  for  herself  in  tin-  I'utun -. 
though  her  preaeni  satisfaction  in  her  release  from  re 
sponsibility  had  dulled  her  real  BOOM  of  right  and 
had  left  only  the  artificialities  of  her  morbid  conscien,-.. 
Mill  sensitive  to  the  flattery  of  ima^inarv  self-sacri- 
fice. 

An  hour  later  she  was  alone  with  her  sister.  She  had 
greeted  lier  in  an  unusually  affectionate  way  on  entering 
the  room,  and  the  younger  ,urirl  immediately  felt  that 
Something  had  taken  place.  She  herself  was  smiling, 
and  cordial  in  her  maiinei . 

"Grace,  dean-vt."  Constance  lir^an.  after  some  little 
hesitation,  "I  want  to  tell  yon.  You  have  talked  so 
much  about  Mr.  Wood  —you  know,  you  have  always 
been  afraid  that  I  would  marry  him.  have  you  not'.'" 

"Not  lately,"  answeivd  (irace  with  a  pleasant  smile. 

"Well — do  you  know'.'  I  have  thought  verv  seriously 
of  it,  and  I  had  decided  to  ,^ive  him  a  definite  answer  to 
day.  l>o  you  understand'.'  I  have  treated  him  abomin 
ably,  (irace  —  oh,  I  am  so  sorry!  I  wish  it  could  all  1-e 
undone  —  you  were  so  rivrht  !  " 

"It  is  not  too  late."  observed  (irace.  Then,  seeing 
that  there  wen-  tears  in  her  sister's  eyes,  she  drew  nearer 
to  her  and  put  her  arm  round  her  waist  in  a  comforting 
way.  "  l>o  not  be  so  unhappy.  <  'onn\ ,"  she  said  in  a  tone 
of  dec])  sympathy.  "  Men  do  not  break  their  hearts  now 
adays  

"  (  >h.  but  he  will.  (Iran-!  I  am  sure  he  will  —  and  tin- 
worst  of  it  is  that  I  must  — you  know 

"Not  at  all.  dear.  If  YOU  like  I  will  break  it  to 
him " 

"Oil,  (irace.  what  a  darling  \"ii  are!  "  cried  Constance, 
throwing  both  her  arms  round  her  sist.-r'-  neck  and  kiss 
ing  her.  "  I  did  not  dare  to  a-k  you.  and  I  could  not,  I 
could  not  have  done  it  mv^-lf!  I'.ut  you  will  do  it  very 


THE  THREE   FAT  US.  175 

kindly,  will  you  not?     You  know  he  has  been  so  good 
and  patient." 

There  was  an  odd  smile  on  Grace's  strong  face  when 
she  answered,  but  Constance  was  not  in  a  mood  to  notice 
anything  disagreeable  just  then. 

"I  will  break  it  to  him  very  gently,''  said  the  young 
girl  quietly.  "  Of  course  you  must  tell  me  what  I  am  to 
say,  more  or  less  —  an  idea,  you  know.  I  cannot  say 
bluntly  that  you  have  sent  word  that  you  have  decided 
not  to  marry  him,  can  I?" 

"  Oh  110 !  "  exclaimed  Constance,  suddenly  growing  very 
grave.  "  You  must  tell  him  that  I  feel  towards  him  just 
as  I  always  did " 

"  Is  that  true  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  I  always  told  him  that  I  did  not  love  him 
enough  to  marry  him.  You  may  as  well  know  it  all.  A 
year  ago,  he  proposed  again  —  well,  yes,  it  was  not  the 
first  time.  I  told  him  that  if  on  the  first  of  May  —  this 
first  of  May  —  I  loved  him  better  than  I  did  then,  I  would 
marry  him.  'Well,  1  have  thought  about  it,  again  and 
again,  all  the  time,  and  I  am  sure  I  do  not  love  him  as  I 
ought,  if  I  were  to  marry  him. " 

"I  should  think  not,"  laughed  Grace,  "if  it  is  so  hard 
to  find  it  out!" 

"Oh,  you  must  not  laugh  at  me,"  said  Constance  ear 
nestly.  u  It  is  very,  very  serious.  Have  I  done  right, 
Grace?  I  wish  I  knew!  I  have  treated  him  so  cruelly, 
so  hatefully,  and  yet  I  did  not  mean  to.  1  am  so  fond  of 
him,  I  admire  him  so  much,  I  like  his  ways  —  and  all  — 
[  do  still,  you  know.  It  is  quite  true.  I  suppose  I  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  it  —  only,  I  am  sure  I  never  did  love 
him,  really." 

"I  have  no  idea  of  laughing  at  the  affair,"  answered 
Grace.  "It  is  serious  enough,  I  am  sure,  especially  for 
him." 

"  Yes  —  I  want  to  make  a  confession  to  you.  I  want  to 
tell  you  that  you  were  quite  right,  that  I  have  encouraged 
him  and  led  him  on  and  been  dreadfully  unkind.  I  am 


176  i  in.  i  iu;u. 

•>ure  you  think  I  ;mi  a  mere  flirt,  ami  perfectly 
l>  it  imt  true'.'  Well.  I  am.  and  it  i>  of  no  u>«-  to  deny  it. 
I  will  never,  never,  do  such  a  tiling  again  —  never!  But 
alter  all.  1  il«»  like  him  MTV  much.  I  never  eouhl  under 
stand  why  you  hated  him  so.  from  tin-  tirM." 

**I  did  not  hate  him.  I  do  not  hate  him  no\v."  said 
(iracr  emphatically.  "  I  did  hate  tin-  idea  ot  his  marrv- 
ingyou,  and  I  do  still.  I  thought  it  wa>  ju>t  as  well  that 
lie  should  see  that  from  tin-  way  HIM-  mrmlx-r  ot  tin-  1'am- 
ily  behaved  towards  him." 

''He  did  see    it!"   t-xidaimcd   (  'cmMam-i-   in   a   tone  ot 
t.     "  It  is  anoth.-r  nt   the  tilings  I   intlictrd  on  him." 

"  You'.'      I  should  rather  think  it  was  I  - 


"No.   it   was  all  m\    lault.  all,  «-\  -«-r\  t  hin-.   I'nuu 

to  md  —  and  \«»u  an-  a  darling.  (ira<-«-\  d«-ar.  and  it 
is  >o  sweet  of  you.  You  will  !»•  very  «,rnud  to  him?  Y«- 
—  and  if  he  should  want  to  Bee  me  very  much.  at't«-r  \ou 
have  told  liini  every  tiling.  I  mi^ht  come  down  tor  a 
minute.  I  should  so  much  like  to  l»e  sure  that  he  ha> 
taken  it  kindly." 

"If  you  wish  it.  you  mi^ht  see  him  —  hut  I  hardly 
think  —  well,  do  as  you  tli  ink  l>est.  dear." 

"Thank  you,  darling  —  you  know  you  really  are  a 
darling,  though  I  do  not  al  \va\N  t,-ll  \ou  BO.  And  now, 
1  think  1  drill  go  and  lie  down,  [  never  glept  last  night." 

^illy    child!"    laughed    (Jrace.    ki»in^    her    on    In.th 
cheeks.      "As  though  it  mattered  ><>  much,  alter  all." 

"  (  >h,  hut  it  does  matter."  COBStanoe  >.iid  regret  fully 
as  >ln-  left  the  room. 

When  (Jrace    Fearing  was  alone  >he  \\ent    to   the    \s  in 
dow  and  looked  out  thought  fully  into  the  fresh,  morning 
air. 

"  f  am  very  urlad."  she  >aid  aloud  to  herselt.  "  I  am 
\.-r\.  \ei-y  -lad.  I'.ut  I  would  not  have  done  it.  \«>. 
not  tor  world>!  I  would  rather  cut  off  my  ri-lit  hand 
than  treat  a  man  like  that  !  " 

In  that    moment  >he  pitied   G^Otge  Wo«»d  witli   all    her 


THE   THKEE    FATES.  177 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

When  George  entered  the  drawing-room  he  was  sur 
prised  to  find  Grace  there  instead  of  Constance,  and  it 
was  with  difficulty  that  he  repressed  a  nervous  movement 
of  annoyance.  On  that  day  of  all  others  he  had  no  desire 
to  meet  Grace  Fearing,  and  though  he  imagined  that  her 
presence  was  accidental  and  that  he  had  come  before  the 
appointed  time  he  felt  something  more  of  resentment 
against  the  young  girl  than  usual.  He  made  the  best  of 
the  situation,  however,  and  put  on  a  brave  face,  consid 
ering  that,  after  all,  when  the  happiness  of  a  lifetime  is 
to  be  decided,  a  delay  of  five  minutes  should  not  be 
thought  too  serious  an  affair. 

Grace  rose  to  receive  him  and,  coming  forward,  held 
his  hand  in  hers  a  second  or  two  longer  than  would  have 
been  enough  under  ordinary  circumstances.  Her  face 
was  very  grave  and  her  deep  brown  eyes  looked  with 
an  expression  of  profound  sympathy  into  those  of  her 
visitor.  George  felt  his  heart  sink  under  the  anticipa 
tion  of  bad  news. 

k'  Is  anything  the  matter,  Miss  Fearing? "  lie  inquired 
anxiously.  "Is  your  sister  ill?" 

"  Xo.  She  is  not  ill.  Sit  down,  Mr.  Wood.  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you.'1 

George  felt  an  acute  presentiment  of  evil,  and  sat 
down  in  such  a  position  with  regard  to  the  light  that  lie 
could  see  Grace's  face  better  than  she  could  see  his. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  in  a  tone  of  constraint. 

The  young  girl  paused  a  moment,  moved  in  her  seat, 
which  she  had  selected  in  the  corner  of  a  sofa,  rested  one 
elbow  on  the  mahogany  scroll  that  rose  at  the  end  of  the 
old-fashioned  piece  of  furniture,  supported  her  beauti 
fully  moulded  chin  upon  the  half-closed  fingers  of  her 
white  hand  and  gazed  upon  George  with  a  look  of  inquir 
ing  sympathy.  There  was  nothing  of  nervousness  nor 


17S  THK   mi:i-:i:  i  A  IKS. 

timidity  in  (iraee  hearing's  nature.  Sin-  knew  what  she 
was  going  to  do  and  she  meant  to  do  it  thoroughly, 
calmly,  pitilessly  it  necessary. 

"  M\  Bister  has  asked  nit-  to  talk  \vith  you."  sin-  began, 
in  her  smooth.  deep  voice.  "She  is  very  unhappy  and 
-he  is  not  able  to  hear  any  more  than  she  has  borne 
already.'' 

George's  face  darkened,  tor  he  knew  what  was  coming 
now.  as  though  it  were  already  .said.  He  opened  his 
lips  to  sj>eak,  but  checked  himself,  reflecting  that  he  did 
not  know  the  extent  of  Graoe'fl  information. 

"I  am  very,  very  sorr\."  she  continued,  earnestly. 
"  I  need  nut  explain  matters.  I  know  all  that  has  hap 
pened,  ('(instance  was  to  have  given  yon  a  final  answer 
to-day.  She  eonld  not  hear  to  do  >o  herself." 

<irace  paused  an  instant,  and  it  (Jeor^e  had  heen  less 
agitated  tlian  lie  was,  he  would  have  seen  that  her  full 
lips  curled  a  little  as  she  spoke  the  last  words. 

"She  has  thought  it  all  over. "  she  concluded.  "Mx- 
does  not  love  you,  and  she  can  never  he  your  wife." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  (irace  chan-cd  her  position, 
leaning  far  back  among  the  cushions  and  clasping  her 
hands  upon  her  knees.  At  the  same  time  she  ceased  to 
look  at  the  young  man's  face,  and  let  her  sight  wander 
to  the  various  objects  on  tin-  other  side  of  the  room. 

In  the  first  moment.  ( ieorge's  heart  stood  still.  Then 
it  began  to  beat  furiously,  though  it  s.-emed  as  though 
it-  pulsations  had  lost  the  power  of  propelling  the  blood 
from  its  central  scat.  He  kept  his  position,  inotionh-ss 
and  outwardly  calm,  but  his  dark  lace  grew  slowly 
white,  leaving  only  black  circles  about  his  gleaming  e\  BB, 
and  his  .scornful  mouth  gradually  set  itself  like  stone. 
He  was  silent,  for  no  words  suggested  themselves  to  his 
lips,  now.  though  they  had  seemed  too  ready  a  nnum-nt 

earlier. 

Grace  felt  that  she  must  sa\  something  more.  Sin- 
was  pel-teeth  cniiscious  of  his  state,  and  if  she  had  beea 
capable  of  fear  she  would  have  been  frightened  by  tllt> 
magnitude  of  his  silent  anger. 


THE   THKEE   FATES.  179 

"  I  have  known  tliat  this  \voulcl  come,"  she  said,  softly. 
"  I  know  Constance  better  than  you  can.  A  very  long 
time  ago,  I  told  her  that  at  the  last  minute  she  would 
refuse  you,  She  is  very  unhappy.  She  begged  me  to 
say  all  this  as  gently  as  possible.  She  made  me  promise 
to  tell  you  that  she  felt  towards  you  just  as  she  had 
always  felt,  that  she  hoped  to  see  you  very  often,  that 
she  felt  towards  you  as  a  sister " 

"  This  is  too  much !  "  exclaimed  George  in  low  and 
angry  tones.  Then  forgetting  himself  altogether,  lie 
rose  from  his  seat  quickly  and  went  towards  the  door. 

Grace  was  on  her  feet  as  quickly  as  he. 

"  Stop !  "  she  cried  in  a  voice  not  loud,  but  of  which 
the  tone  somehow  imposed  upon  the  angry  man. 

He  turned  suddenly  and  faced  her  as  though  he  were 
at  bay,  but^she  met  his  look  calmly  and  her  eyes  did 
not  fall  before  his. 

"You  shall  not  go  away  like  this,'*  she  said. 

''Pardon  me,"  he  answered.  "I  think  it  is  the  best 
thing  I  can  do."  There  was  something  almost  like  a 
laugh  in  the  bitterness  of  his  tone. 

''I  think  not,"  replied  Grace  with  much  dignity. 

"Can  you  have  anything  more  to  say  to  me,  Miss 
Fearing?  You,  of  all  people?  Are  you  not  satisfied?" 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  and  from  the  tone  in  which 
you  speak,  I  would  rather  not.  You  are  very  angry, 
and  you  have  reason  to  be  —  heaven  knows !  But  you 
are  wrong  in  being  angry  with  me." 

"Am  I?"  George  asked,  recovering  some  control  of 
his  voice  and  manner.  "  I  am  at  least  wrong  in  show 
ing  it,"  he  added,  a  moment  later.  "Do  you  wish  me  to 
stay  here?  " 

"A  few  minutes  longer,  if  you  will  be  so  kind,"  Grace 
answered,  sitting  down  again,  though  George  remained 
standing  before  her.  "  You  are  wrong  to  be  angry  with 
me,  Mr.  Wood.  I  have  only  repeated  to  you  my  sister's 
words.  I  have  done  my  best  to  tell  you  the  truth  as 
gently  as  possible." 


18U  Till-:     I  Hi:  I   1.     I  A  IKS. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it.  Your  mission  is  not  an  easy  one. 
\Yliy  did  your  sister  not  tell  me  the  truth  herself  ''.'  Is 
she  afraid  of  me1.'  " 

"'Do  you  think  it  would  have  been  any  easier  t<>  bear. 
if  she  had  told  you'.'" 


"Why?"  Grace  asked 

''Because  it  is  better  to  hear  such  things  directly  than 
at  second  hand.  Because  it  is  easier  to  hear  such  words 
when  they  arc  spoken  liy  those  we  love,  than  by  those 
who  hate  us.  Because  when  hearts  are  to  lie  broken  it 
is  braver  to  do  it  oneself  than  to  employ  a  third  person." 

"  You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying.     I  never  hated 

you." 

"Miss  Kearing,"  >aid  (ico^e.  who  was  raj.  idly  becom 
ing  exasperated  beyond  endurance,  "will  you  allo\\  un 
to  take  my  leave?  '' 

"I  never  hated  you,"  Grace  repeated  without  lieedin- 
his  question.  **I  never  liked  you,  and  I  never  mua 
at  raid  to  show  it.  15ut  I  respect  you  —  no.  do  not  inter 
rupt  —  I  respect  you,  more  than  I  did.  because  1  have 
found  out  that  you  have  more  heart  than  1  had  l.elieved. 
I  admire  you  as  everybody  admires  you,  for  what  you  do 
so  well.  And  I  am  sorry  for  you.  more  sorry  than  I 
can  tell.  If  \<>M  \\ould  have  my  friendship.  I  would 
offer  it  to  you  —  indeed  you  ha\  «•  it  already.  I'mm  t»»-da\  ." 

"I  am  deeply  indebted  to  von."  (leorn'e  answered  verv 
coldly. 

••  You  need  n,,t  even  make  a  sho\\  of  thanking  me.  1 
have  done  you  no  service,  and  1  should  re-ret  it  \.i\ 
much  if  ('(instance  married  you.  Do  not  look  surprised. 
My  only  virtue  is  Imm^ty.  and  when  1  have  such 
things  to  .say  \  mi  think  that  is  no  virtue  at  all.  I 
thought  very  badly  ot  \  <m  once.  For-ive  me.  il  \  on 
can.  I  havi-  clian-cd  my  mind.  I  have  neither  said 
nor  done  anything  for  a  lon^  time  to  intlueiice  mv  sister, 

Hot     l"l'   ]|ea]'l\     a    \eai-.         Poyoll    belie\e    Hie'.'" 

(ienr._;i-  was  be^inniii-    to   be    \'ery    much    surprised    at 


THE    THREE    FATES.  181 

Grace's  tone.  He  was  too  much  under  the  influence  of 
a  great  emotion  to  reason  with  himself,  but  the  truth 
fulness  of  her  manner  spoke  to  his  heart.  If  she  had 
condoled  with  him,  or  tried  to  comfort  him,  he  would 
have  been  disgusted,  but  her  straightforward  confession 
of  her  own  feelings  produced  a  different  effect. 

"I  believe  you,"  he  said,  wondering  how  he  could  sin 
cerely  answer  such  a  statement  with  such  words. 

"•Thank  you,  you  are  generous."  Grace  rose  again, 
and  put  out  her  hand.  "'  Do  you  care  to  see  her,  before 
you  go?"  she  asked,  looking  into  his  eyes.  "I  will 
send  her  to  you,  if  you  wish  it. " 

"Yes,"  George  answered,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 
"I  will  see  her  — please." 

He  was  left  alone  for  a  few  minutes.  Though  the  sun 
was  streaming  in  through  the  window,  he  felt  cold  as  he 
had  never  felt  cold  in  his  life.  His  anger  had,  he 
believed,  subsided,  but  the  sensation  it  had  left  behind 
was  new  and  strange  to  him.  He  turned  as  he  stood 
and  his  glance  fell  upon  Constance's  favourite  chair,  the 
seat  in  which  she  had  sat  so  often  and  so  long  while  he 
had  talked  with  her.  Then  he  felt  a  sudden  pain,  so 
sharp  that  it  mijjht  have  seemed  the  last  in  life,  and  he 
steadied  himself  by  leaning  on  the  table.  It  was  as 
though  he  had  seen  the  fair  young  girl  lying  dead  in 
that  place  she  loved.  But  she  was  not  dead.  It  was 
worse.  Then  his  great  wrath  surged  up  again,  sending 
the  blood  tingling  through  his  sinewy  frame  to  the  tips 
of  his  strong  fingers,  and  bringing  a  different  mood  with 
it,  and  a  sterner  humour.  He  was  a  very  masculine 
man.  incapable  of  being  long  crushed  by  any  blow.  He 
\vas  sorry,  now,  that  he  had  asked  to  see  her.  Had  he 
felt  thus  five  minutes  earlier,  he  would  have  declined 
Grace's  offer  and  would  have  left  the  house,  meaning 
never  to  re-enter  it.  But  it  \vas  too  late  and  he  could 
no  longer  avoid  the  meeting. 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Constance  stood 
before  him.  Her  face  was  pale  and  there  were  traces 


182  THK    THKKK    I    \  I  l.>. 

of  tears  upon  her  cheeks.  I'.ut  In-  was  n<»t  moved  to  pity 
i'\  an\  such  out\var<l  BlgDfl  <»t  past  emotion.  She  came 
and  stood  before  him.  and  laid  one  delicate  hand  upon 
his  sleeve,  looking  up  timidly  t«»  hi>  eyes.  He  did  not 
move,  and  his  expression  did  not  chanu' 

"Can  you  forgive  me?"  she  asked  in  a  trembling 
voice. 

"No,"  he  answered,  bitterly.  "  \\h\-  should  I  t<>iuri\« 
you?" 

"I  know  1  have  not  deserved  yon r  forgiveness."  she 
said,  piteously.  "I  have  been  very,  very  wrong —  1 
have  done  the  worst  thing  I  ever  did  in  my  life  —  1 
have  been  heartless,  unkind,  cruel,  wicked  —  but  —  but 
I  never  meant  to  be " 

"It  is  small  consolation  to  me  to  know  that  you  did 
not  mean  it." 

"Oh,  do  not  be  so  hard!  "  she  cried,  the  tears  rising 
in  her  voice.  ''I  did  not  mean  it  so.  1  never  promised 
you  anything  —  indeed  I  never  did  !  " 

"It  must  be  a  source  of  sincere  satisfaction,  to  feel 
that  your  conscience  is  clear." 

"But  it  is  not  —  I  want  to  tell  you  all  —  (Jrace  has  not 
told  you  —  I  like  you  as  much  as  ever,  then-  is  no  differ 
ence —  I  am  still  fond  of  you,  still  verv  fond  of  you!  " 

"Thanks." 

"Oh,  (Jenrge.  are  you  a  stone1.'  Will  nothing  move 
\ou'/  Cannot  you  se»-  ho\v  I  am  >ul't'erin^'.' " 

"Yes.  I  see."  He  neither  moved,  nor  bent  his  head. 
His  lips  opened  and  shut  mechanically  as  though  they 
wen*  made  of  steel.  She  looked  up  again  into  his  feoti 
and  his  expre>>ioii  terrified  her. 

She  turned  away,  slowly  at  lirM.  as  though  in  despair. 
Then  with  a  sudden  movement  she  threw  herself  upon 
the  sola  and  buried  her  face  in  the  cushions,  while  a 
violent  tit  ol  .sobbing  shook  her  light  frame  from  head  to 
toot  <•<  .od  still,  watching  her  with  stoiiv  eyes. 

l-'or  a  full  minute  nothing  was  audible  but  the  sound  of 
her  weeping. 


THE    THREE    FATES.  183 

"You  are  so  cold,"  she  sobbed.  "Oh,  George,  you 
will  break  iny  heart !  " 

"You  seem  to  be  chiefly  overcome  by  pity  for  your 
self,"  he  answered  cruelly.  "If  you  have  anything  else 
to  say,  I  will  wait.  If  not  — 

She  roused  herself  and  sat  up,  the  tears  streaming  down 
her  cheeks,  her  hands  clasped  passionately  together. 

"  Oh,  do  not  go !  Do  not  go  —  it  kills  me  to  let  you 
go." 

"Do  you  think  it  would?  In  that  case  I  will  stay  a 
little  longer."  He  turned  away  and  went  to  the  window. 
For  some  minutes  there  was  silence  in  the  room. 

"George—  Constance  began  timidly.  George 

turned  sharply  round. 

"I  am  here.  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Miss. Fear- 
ing?" 

"Cannot  you  say  you  forgive  me?  Can  you  not  say 
one  kind  word?" 

"Indeed,  I  should  find  it  very  hard." 

Constance  had  recovered  herself  to  some  extent,  and 
sat  staring  vacantly  across  the  room,  while  the  tears 
slowly  dried  upon  her  cheeks.  Her  courage  and  her 
pride  were  alike  gone,  and  she  looked  the  very  picture 
of  repentance  and  despair.  But  George's  heart  had  been 
singularly  hardened  during  the  half -hour  or  more  which 
he  had  spent  in  her  house  that  day.  Presently  she 
began  speaking  in  a  slow,  almost  monotonous  tone,  as 
though  she  were  talking  with  herself. 

"  I  have  been  very  bad, "  she  said,  "  and  I  know  it,  but 
I  have  always  told  the  truth.  I  never  loved  you  enough. 
I  never  cared  for  you  as  you  deserved.  Did  I  not  tell 
you  so?  Oh  yes,  very  often  —  too  often.  I  should  not 
have  told  you  even  that  I  cared  a  little.  You  are  the 
best  friend  I  ever  had — »why  have  I  lost  you  by  loving 
you  a  little?  It  seems  very  hard.  It  is  not  that  you 
must  forgive,  it  is  that  I  should  have  told  you  so  that 
I  should  —  you  kissed  me  once  —  it  was  not  your  fault. 
I  let  you  do  it.  There  seemed  so  little  harm  —  and 


1S4  TIM:  THKKI;   FAIL-. 

\et  it  wa>  >«>  wronU'.  Ami  one.-.  l>ecau>e  there  was  pain 
in  your  tact-.  I  ki»ed  you.  a>  I  would  have  ki^.-d  uiv 
>ister.  I  was  so  fond  oi  \ou —  I  am  still,  although  you 
tOt  90  cruel  and  cold.  I  did  think  —  I  really  hoped  that 
I  should  love  you  BO1H6  day.  You  do  not  believe  me? 
What  does  it  matter;  You  will,  for  I  always  told  you 
what  was  true  —  but  that  is  it  —  I  hoped,  and  1  let  \  011 
->•••  that  I  hoped.  It  was  very  wrong.  \Yill  you  try  — 
only  try  to  forgive  me?" 

"  I>o  you  not  think  it  would  be  better  it'  you  would  let 
me  leave  you.  Miss  Fearing'.'  "  (Jeor^e  asked.  mming 
suddenly  forward.  "  It  can  do  very  little  -ood  to  talk 
this  matter  over." 

"Mi»  Fearing!"  exelaimed  the  youn.^  -irl  with  a 
si^h.  "  It  i-  BO  l"Uur  Bince  you  called  me  that  !  1  >o  you 
WBnt  tO  gO?  How  should  1  keep  you?  Unl\  this,  will 
you  think  kindly  of  me,  sometime^.'  \Yill  y..u  som.-timo 
think  that  I  hclj^d  you  —  only  a  little  —  to  he  what  you 
are?  Will  you  say  '(Jood-l.ye.  ( 'on>tance. '  a  little 
kindly?" 

GtaOTge  WfL8  mOYftd  in  spite  of  hin^elf.  and  his  foi(M 
was  softer  when  he  an>wei-ed  h«T. 

"Of  what  UM  Ifl  it.  t<.  >peak  of  the>e  things'.'  You 
know  all  that  you  have  l.eeii  to  me  j,,  tlie>e  yean,  hetter 
than  I  can  tell  you.  It  turn>  out  that  1  have  l»een  noth 
ing  to  you  —  well,  then v 

••Nothin-    to   me!      Oh  (iem-^e.  you   have    heen   e\ei\ 
thin^  —  my  lie>t  friend "      She  >topped  short. 

His  heart  hardened  auraiu.  It  .se.-iued  to  him  that 
every  \\oi-d  >he  >poke  was  in  dire.-t  contradiction  to  her 

action. 

••  \\'ill  you  tell  me  one  thinur'.'"  he  a^>ked.  after  a 
|»aii>«-  dui-in-  which  she  .seemed  to  he  on  the  point  ol 
Inir-t  in-  into  ti-ar^  aurain. 

•'  Anything  \  mi  a-^k  me."  >he  answered. 

"  Have  you  come  to  this  decision  yoiir>e]i.  oi'  has  your 
BigteT  intlueneed  you'/"  His  eyes  sought  hers  and  tried 
to  read  her  inmost  thought-. 


THE   THREE   FATES.  185 

"It  is  my  own  resolution,"  she  answered  without 
wavering.  "  Grace  has  not  spoken  of  my  marrying  you 
for  more  than  a  year. " 

"I  am  glad  that  it  is  altogether  from  your  own 
heart " 

"  Can  you  think  that  I  would  have  taken  the  advice  of 
some  one  else?"  Constance  asked,  reproachfully. 

"I  do  not  know.  It  matters  very  little,  after  all. 
Pardon  me  if  I  have  been  rude  or  hasty.  My  manners 
may  have  been  a  little  ruffled  by  this  —  this  occurrence. 
Good-bye." 

She  took  his  hand  and  tried  to  press  it,  looking  again 
for  his  eyes.  But  he  drew  his  lingers  away  quickly  and 
was  gone  before  she  could  detain  him.  For  one  moment 
she  sat  staring  at  the  closed  door.  Then  she  once  more 
hid  her  face  in  the  deep  soft  cushions  and  sobbed  aloud, 
more  passionately  than  the  first  time. 

"Oh,  I  know  I  ought  to  have  married  him,  I  know  1 
really  love  him !  "  she  moaned. 

And  so  the  first  act  of  Constance  Fearing' s  life  comedy 
was  played  out  and  the  curtain  fell  between  her  and  the 
happiness  to  grasp  which  she  lacked  either  the  will  or 
the  passion,  or  both.  She  had  acted  her  part  with  a  sin 
cerity  so  scrupulous  that  it  was  like  a  parody  of  truth. 
She  had  thought  of  marrying  George  Wood  with  delight, 
she  had  broken  with  him  in  the  midst  of  what  might  be 
called  a  crisis  of  doubt,  and  she  had  parted  from  him 
with  sincere  and  bitter  tears,  feeling  that  she  had  sacri 
ficed  all  she  held  dear  in  the  world  to  the  ferocious 
Moloch  of  her  conscience. 

To  follow  the  action  of  her  intelligence  any  farther 
through  the  mazes  of  the  labyrinth  into  which  she  had 
led  it  would  be  a  labour  so  stupendous  that  no  sensible 
person  could  for  a  moment  contemplate  the  possibility 
of  performing  the  task,  and  for  the  present  Constance 
Fearing  must  be  left  to  her  tears,  her  meditations,  and 
her  complicated  state  of  mind  with  such  pity  as  can  be 
spared  for  her  weaknesses  and  such  kind  thoughts  as  may 


186  THl.    THKKK    FATI>. 

he  bestowed  by  tin-  charitable  upon  her  gentle  charaer.-r. 
It  will  be  easier  to  understand  the  strong  passion  ;ind  the 
hitter  disappointment  which  agitated  C.-orge  Wood's 
powerful  nature  during  the  hours  which  followed  the 
BOenefl  just  described. 

His  day  was  indeed  n<>t  OV6I  yet,  though  lit*  frit  M 
though  the  MMI  had  gone  down  upon  his  life  belon- 
it  was  yet  noon.  He  was  neither  morbid  nor  -,.•](- 
conscious,  nor  did  lie  follow  after  the  chimera  intro- 
-peetimi.  He  was  simply  and  savagely  angry  with 
Constance,  with  himself,  with  the  whole  known  and 
unknown  world.  For  the  time,  he  t'm-got  who  he  was. 
what  he  \vas,  and  all  that  he  had  done  or  that  lie  might 

be    expected     to    do     ill     the     future.        He    knew    that    Con- 

-tance  had  spoken  the  truth  in  saying  that  -lie  had 
promised  nothing.  The  -reater  madman  he.  to  have  ex 
pected  anything  whatever!  He  knew  that  her  whole  lite 
and  conversation  had  been  one  Ionic  promi>e  during  nearly 
two  years  —  the  more  despicably  heart  le»  and  altn^-ther 
rontemptibh1  she  wa>.  then,  for  since  she  had  spoken 
what  was  tnie  she  had  acted  what  was  a  lie  from  begin 
ning  to  end.  Forgive  her?  He  had  given  her  his  only 
;ui-wer.  Why  should  he  forgive  her?  \Veiv  there  any 
extenuating  circumstances  in  her  favour?  Not  one  — 
and  if  there  had  been,  he  knew  that  he  would  have  torn 
that  one  to  tatters  till  it  was  unrecognisable  to  his  B8H06 
of  justice.  Her  ttars.  her  pathetic  voice,  her  timidity, 
even  her  pale  face  —  they  had  all  been  parts  of  the  play, 
harmonic  chords  in  the  grand  (dose  of  lies  that  had 
•  •iided  her  symphony  of  deception.  She  had  even  pre 
pared  his  ears  by  sending  (irace  to  him  with  her  warm. 
>vmpathetie  e\o.  her  rich,  deep  voice  ;md  her  tale  of 
spontaneous  friendship.  It  \va>  M  range  that  he  should 
have  believed  the  other  girl,  even  for  one  moment,  but 
he  admitted  that  he  had  put  some  faith  in  her  word>. 
How  poor  a  thing  was  the  strongest  man  when  desper 
ately  hurt,  ready  to  believe  in  the  tir>t  mockery  of  >ym 
pathy  that  was  offered  him.  ready  to  catch  at  the  mare 


THE    THREE    FATES.  187 

shadow  of  a  straw  blown  by  the  wind!  Doubtless  the 
two  sisters  had  concocted  their  comedy  overnight  and 
had  planned  their  speeches  to  produce  the  proper  effect 
upon  his  victimised  feelings.  He  had  singularly  dis 
appointed  them  both,  in  that  case.  They  would  have  to 
think  longer  and  think  more  wisely  the  next  time  they 
meant  to  deceive  a  man  of  his  character.  He  remem 
bered  with  delight  every  cold,  hard  word  he  had  spoken, 
every  cruelly  brutal  answer  he  had  given.  He  rejoiced 
in  every  syllable  saving  only  that  "I  believe  you"  he 
had  bestowed  on  Grace's  asseverations  of  friendship  and 
esteem.  And  he  had  been  weak  enough  to  ask  Constance 
whether  Grace  had  spoken  the  truth,  as  if  they  had  not 
arranged  between  them  beforehand  every  sentence  of  each 
part !  That  had  been  weakness  indeed !  How  they  would 
laugh  over  his  question  when  they  compared  notes !  By 
this  time  they  were  closeted  together,  telling  each  other 
all  he  had  said  and  done.  On  the  whole,  there  could  not 
be  much  to  please  them,  and  he  had  found  strings  for 
most  of  his  short  phrases  after  the  first  surprise  was  over. 
He  was  glad  that  he  disbelieved  them  both,  and  so  thor 
oughly.  If  there  had  been  one  grain  of  belief  in  Con 
stance  left  to  him,  how  much  he  still  might  suffer.  His 
illusion  had  fallen,  but  it  had  fallen  altogether  with  one 
shock,  in  one  general  and  overwhelming  crash.  There 
was  not  one  stone  of  his  temple  whole  that  it  might  be 
set  upon  another,  there  was  not  one  limb,  one  fragment 
of  his  beautiful  idol  that  might  recall  its  loveliness.  All 
was  gone,  wholly,  irrevocably,  and  he  was  glad  that  it 
was  all  gone  together.  The  ruin  was  so  complete  that 
he  could  doubtless  separate  the  memory  of  the  past  from 
the  fact  of  the  present,  and  dwell  upon  it,  live  upon  it, 
as  he  would.  If  he  met  Constance  now,  he  could  behave 
towards  her  as  he  would  to  any  other  woman.  She  was 
not  Constance  any  more.  Her  name  roused  no  emotion 
in  his  heart,  the  thought  of  her  face  as  he  had  last  seen 
it  was  not  connected  with  anything  like  love.  Her  false 
face,  that  had  been  so  true  and  honest  once!  He  could 
scorn  the  one  and  yet  love  the  other. 


188  THK    THHKK    FATES. 

If  lleorge  li;nl  been  less  absorbed  in  his  angry  thoughts, 
«»r  had  known  that  then-  \vas  anything  unusual  in  his  ex- 
pre>->ion.  In-  \\ouhl  not  have  walked  up  Fifth  Avenue  on 
his  way  from  \Yashington  Square.  The  times  wen- 
chant:.-.!  since  he  had  UMMI  able  to  traverse  the  thorough  - 
tar.-  of  fashion  in  the  comparative  certainty  of  not  meet 
ing  an  acquaintance.  I'.rtmv  he  liad  gone  far,  he  was 
conscious  of  having  failed  to  return  more  than  one 
friendly  noil,  and  lie  was  disgusted  with  himself  for 
allowing  his  emotions  to  have  got  the  better  of  Ins 
habitually  quick  perception.  At  the  busy  corner  of 

Fourteenth   Street    he  stopped    Upon   the  edge   of   the    pa  Ve- 

ment,  debating  for  a  moment  whether  he  should  leave  the 
\  venue  and  go  home  by  the  elevated  road,  or  strike  across 
I'nion  Square  and  take  a  long  walk  in  the  less  crowded 
{.arts  of  the  city.  .Just  then,  a  familiar  and  pleasant 
voice  spoke  at  his  elbow. 

"Why,  George!"  exclaimed  Totty  Trimm.  "How 
you  look!  What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"How  do  you  do,  cousin  Totty'/  I  do  not  understand. 
Is  there  anything  the  matter  with  my  face?" 

"I  wish  you  could  see  yourself  in  the  glass!"  cried 
the  little  lady  evidently  more  and  more  surprised  at  his 
unusual   expression.      u  I    wish   you  could.      You  are  as 
white    as   a  sheet,    with   great  rings   round   your  eyw 
Where  in  the  world  have  you  been1.'" 

"I'.'  <>h.  I  have  only  been  making  a  visit  at  the  Fear- 
ings.  I  suppose  I  am  tired." 

••'Die  tarings?"  repeated  Totty.  with  a  sweet  smile. 
"How  odd!  I  \\as  ju>t  going  there  —  walking,  you  see, 
because  it  is  such  a  lovely  afternoon.  You  won't  oome 
back  with  me'.'  They  won't  mind  seeing  you  twice  in 
the  same  d;i\  .  I  daresay." 

"Thanks."  aiis\\eivd  QftOfge,  ->peakinur  hurriedlv.  and 
growing,  it  possible,  paler  than  before.  "I  think  it 
would  be  rather  too  much.  lies  ides,  I  have  a  lot  of 
work  to  do." 

"Well  —  go  in  and  PM   Mamie  on  your  way  up.      She 


THE   THREE   FATES.  189 

is  alone  —  got  a  horrid  cold,  poor  child!  She  will  be  so 
glad  and  she  will  give  you  a  cup  of  tea.  You  might  put 
a  little  of  that  old  whiskey  of  Sherry's  into  it.  I  am 
sure  you  are  not  well,  George.  You  are  looking  wretch 
edly.  Good-bye,  dear  boy." 

Totty  squeezed  his  hand  warmly,  gave  him  an  ear 
nest  and  affectionate  look,  and  tripped  away  down  the 
Avenue.  George  wondered  whether  she  had  guessed 
that  there  was  anything  wrong. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  lied, "  he  said  to  himself, 
as  he  crossed  the  thoroughfare.  "They  will  —  but  I 
cannot  do  it  so  well.  I  ought  to  have  told  her  that  I  had 
been  to  the  club." 

Totty  Trimm  had  not  only  guessed  that  something  was 
very  wrong  indeed.  She  had  instinctively  hit  upon  the 
truth.  She,  like  many  other  people,  had  seen  long  ago 
that  George  was  in  love  with  Constance  Fearing,  and  she 
had  for  a  long  time  been  glad  of  it.  During  the  last 
three  or  four  days,  however,  she  had  changed  her  mind 
in  a  way  very  unusual  with  her,  and  she  had  been  hop 
ing  with  all  her  heart  that  something  would  happen  to 
break  off  a  match  that  seemed  to  be  very  imminent.  The 
matter  had  been  so  constantly  in  her  thoughts  that  she 
referred  to  it  everything  she  heard  about  the  Fearings 
and  about  George.  She  had  not  really  had  the  slightest 
intention  of  going  to  the  house  in  Washington  Square 
when  she  had  met  her  cousin,  but  the  determination  had 
formed  itself  so  quickly  that  she  had  spoken  the  truth  in 
declaring  it.  She  made  up  her  mind  to  see  Constance 
the  moment  she  had  seen  George's  face  and  had  learned 
that  he  had  been  with  her.  She  pursued  her  way  with 
a  light  heart,  and  her  nimble  little  feet  carried  her  more 
lightly  and  smoothly  than  ever.  She  rang  the  bell  and 
asked  if  the  young  ladies  were  at  home. 

"Yes  ma'am,"  answered  the  servant,  "but  Miss  Con 
stance  is  not  very  well,  and  is  gone  to  her  room  with  a 
headache,  and  Miss  Grace  said  she  would  see  no  one, 


190  THE    THREE   FATES. 

"I  just  met  Mr.  Wood."  objected  Totty.  "and  ho  said 
ho  had  been  here  this  afternoon." 

"Yes  ma'am,  and  so  h,-  \\a>.  and  it's  since  Mr.  Wood 
left  that  tin-  orders  was  given.  Shall  I  take  your  card. 
Mrs.  Trimm,  ma'am?" 

"No.  It  is  of  no  use.  You  can  tell  the  young  ladi«-> 
I  called." 

She  descended  the  steps  and  went  quickly  back  toward.s 
Fifth  Avenue.  There  was  great  joy  and  triumph  in  her 
breast  and  her  smile  shed  its  radiance  on  the  trees  on 
the  deserted  pavement  and  on  the  stiff  iron  railings  as 
she  went  along. 

"That  idiotic  little  fool !  "  said  Mrs.  Sherrington  Trimm 
in  her  heart.  "She  loves  him.  and  she  has  refused  one 
of  the  best  mat< -hcs  in  New  York  because  she  fancies  he 
wants  her  money! " 

She  reflected  that  if  Mamie  had  the  same  chance,  she 
should  certainly  not  refuse  George  \\  inton  Wood,  and 
she  determined  that  if  diplomacy  could  produce  the  nec- 
essary  situation,  she  would  not  be  long  in  bringing  mat 
ters  to  the  proper  point.  There  is  no  time  when  ;i  man 
is  so  susceptible,  so  ready  to  yield  to  the  charms  of  one 
woman  as  when  he  has  just  been  jilted  by  another  —  so, 
at  least,  thought  Totty,  and  her  worldly  experience  was 
by  no  means  small.  And  if  the  marriage  could  lie  brought. 
about,  why  then  —  Totty 's  radiant  face  expressed  the 
re>t  of  h.-r  thoughts  better  than  any  words  could  have 
done. 

While  she  was  making  these  reflect  ions  the  chief  figure 
in  her  panorama  was  st riding  up  the  Avenue  at  a  rapid 
pace.  Strange  to  say  his  cousin's  suggestion,  that  he 
>hould  <MI  ami  .s.-e  Mamie  had  proved  rather  attractive 
than  otherwise.  He  did  not  rare  to  walk  the  streets, 
since  Totty  had  been  so  much  surprised  by  his  appear- 
ancr.  II.-  might  inert  other  acquaintances,  and  be 
obliged  to  speak  with  them.  If  lie  went  home  he  would 
to  face  his  father,  who  would  not  fail  to  notice  his 
looks,  and  who  might  gurss  the  cause  of  his  distress,  for 


THE   THREE   FATES.  191 

the  old  gentleman  was  well  aware  that  his  son  was  in 
love  with  Constance  and  hoped  with  all  his  heart  that 
the  marriage  might  not  be  far  distant.  Mamie  would  be 
alone,  Mamie  knew  nothing  of  his  doings,  she  was  a  good 
girl,  and  he  liked  her.  To  spend  an  hour  with  her 
would  cost  him  nothing,  as  she  would  talk  the  greater 
part  of  the  time,  and  he  would  gain  a  breathing  space  in 
which  to  recover  from  the  shock  he  had  received.  She 
was  indeed  the  only  person  whom  he  could  have  gone  to 
see  at  that  moment  without  positive  suffering,  except 
Johnson,  and  he  was  several  miles  from  the  office  of 
Johnson's  newspaper. 

As  he  approached  the  Tr hums'  house  his  pace  slack 
ened,  as  though  he  were  finally  debating  within  himself 
upon  the  wisdom  of  making  the  visit.  Then  as  he  came 
within  sight  of  the  door  he  quickened  his  steps  again 
and  did  not  pause  until  he  had  rung  the  bell.  A  moment 
later  he  entered  the  drawing-room  where  Mamie  Trimiu 
was  sitting  in  a  deep  easy-chair,  among  flowers  near  a 
sunlit  window.  She  held  a  book  in  her  hand. 

"Oh  George!  "  she  cried,  blushing  with  pleasure.  "I 
am  so  glad  —  I  am  all  alone." 

"And  what  are  you  reading,  all  alone  among  the 
roses?"  asked  George  kindly. 

"What  do  you  think?" 

Then  she  held  up  the  novel  for  him  to  see.  It  was 
the  book  he  had  just  published. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

Mamie  Trimm  was  one  of  those  young  girls  of  whom 
it  is  most  difficult  to  give  a  true  impression  by  describing 
them  in  the  ordinary  way.  To  say  that  her  height  was 
so  many  feet  and  so  many  inches  —  fewer  inches  than 
the  average  —  that  her  hair  was  very  fair,  her  eyes  grey, 


I  HI.     IHKl.i:     !   AfK*. 

her  iiose  small,  her  mouth  large,  her  complexion  clear, 
her  figure  well  proportioned,  to  say  all  this  is  to  >a\ 
nothing  at  all.  A  passport,  in  the  days  of  passports, 
\vouldhave  said  as  much,  and  the  description  would  have 
just  sufficed  to  point  out  Mamie  Trimm  if  she  had  found 
herself  in  a  company  of  tall  women  with  Mack  hair, 
large  features  and  imposing  presence.  It  would  have 
been  easier  for  a  man  to  h'nd  her  amongst  a  bevy  of  girls 
of  her  age,  if  he  had  been  t<dd  that  she  pOM68ted  a 
charm  of  her  own,  which  nobody  could  detine.  It  would 
help  him  in  his  search,  to  be  Informed  thai  she  looked 
very  delicate,  but  was  not  so  in  reality,  that  her  figure 
was  not  only  well  proportioned,  hut  was  very  exception 
ally  perfect  and  graceful,  and  that,  hut  for  her  well-set 
grey  eyes  and  her  transparent  complexion,  her  face 
could  never  have  been  called  pretty.  All  these  points 
may  have  combined  to  produee  the  aforesaid  individu 
ality  that  was  especially  hers.  Little  is  known,  I  be 
lieve,  of  that  fair  young  girl  of  whom  Charles  Lamb 
wrote  to  Landor  —  "Hose  Aylmcr  has  a  charm  that  1 
cannot  explain."  Mamie  Trimm  was  George  Wood's 
Rose  Aylmer. 

He  had  known  her  all  her  life  and  there  was  between 
them  that  sort  of  intimacy  which  cannot  exist  at  all 
unless  it  has  begun  in  childhood.  The  patronising 
superiority  of  the  schoolboy  has  found  a  foil  in  the 
dinging  admiration  of  the  little  girl  who  is  only  half 
iiis  age.  The  budding  vanity  of  the  young  student  has 
delighted  in  "explaining  things"  to  the  .slim  maiden  of 
fourteen  who  believes  all  his  words  and  worships  all  his 
ideas,  the  struggling,  .striving,  hardworking  beginner 
has  found  com  fort  in  the  unfailing  friendship  and  devo 
tion  of  the  accomplished  young  woman  whom  he  still 
thinks  of  as  a  child,  and  treats  as  a  sister,  not  realising 
that  the  difference  between  fourteen  and  seven  is  one 
thing,  while  that  between  five  or  six  and  twenty,  and 
eighteen  or  nineteen  is  quite  another. 

\Yhen  a  friendship  of  that  kind  has  begun    in   childish 


THE   THKEE   FATES.  198 

years  it  is  not  easily  broken,  even  though  the  subsequent 
intercourse  be  occasionally  interrupted.  Of  late,  indeed, 
Constance  Fearing  had  taken,  and  more  than  taken 
Mamie's  place  in  George's  life.  He  had  seen  his  cousin 
constantly  of  course,  but  she  had  felt  that  he  was  not  to 
her  what  he  had  been,  that  something  she  could  not 
understand  had  come  between  them,  and  that  she  had 
been  deprived  of  something  that  had  given  her  pleasure. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  was  precisely  at  this  time  that  she 
had  made  her  first  appearance  in  society  and  her  life  had 
been  all  at  once  made  very  full  of  new  interests  and 
new  amusements.  She  had  been  received  into  the  bosom 
of  social  institutions  with  enthusiasm,  she  had  held  her 
own  with  tact,  she  had  danced  at  every  ball,  had  received 
offers  of  marriage  about  once  in  three  months,  had 
refused  them  all  systematically  and  Avas,  on  the  whole, 
in  the  very  prime  of  an  American  girl's  social  career. 
If  her  head  had  been  turned  by  much  admiration,  she 
had  concealed  the  fact  very  well,  and  the  expression  of 
her  attractive  face  had  not  changed  for  the  worse  after 
two  years  of  uninterrupted  gaiety.  She  was  still  as 
innocently  fond  of  George  as  she  had  been  when  a  little 
girl  and  if  the  exigencies  of  continual  amusement  had 
deprived  her  of  some  of  his  companionship,  she  looked 
upon  the  circumstance  with  all  the  fatalism  of  the  very 
young  and  the  very  happy,  as  a  matter  to  be  regretted 
when  she  had  time  for  regrets,  but  inevitable  and  pre 
destined.  Her  regrets,  indeed,  had  not  troubled  her 
much  until  very  lately,  when  George's  growing  reputa 
tion  had  begun  to  draw  him  into  the  current  of  society. 
She  had  seen  then  for  the  first  time  that  there  was 
another  person,  somewhat  older  than  herself,  in  whose, 
company  he  delighted  as  he  had  never  delighted  in  her 
own,  and  her  dormant  jealousy  had  been  almost  awak 
ened  by  the  sight.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  always 
had  a  prior  right  and  claim  upon  her  cousin's  attention 
and  conversation,  and  she  did  not  like  to  find  her  right 
contested,  especially  by  one  so  well  able  to  maintain  her 


THK    TUm.l.     1   ATKS. 

conquests  a-ain.M  all  comers  as  was  <*« instance  Fearing. 
In  her  innocence,  she  had  more  than  once  complained  to 
her  mother  that  George  neglected  her,  but  hitherto  her 

observations  mi  the  subject  had  received  no  >\mpathv 
from  Mrs.  Sherrington  Triiiim.  Totty  had  no  idea  oi 
allowing  ln-r  only  child  to  marry  a  penniless  man  of 
genius,  and  though,  as  ha>  been  set  forth  in  the  earlv 
].art  of  this  history  she  felt  it  incumbent  uj)on  her  to  do 
something  fur  Ge«.rg(..  and  encouraged  his  visit>.  >he 
took  care  that  he  should  inert  Mamie  as  rarely  as  jm>.si- 
ble  in  her  own  house.  As  tor  Shi-mutton  Trimm  liim- 
self,  he  cared  for  none  of  these  things.  If  Mamie  loved 
George,  she  was  welcome  to  marry  him.  if  she  did  not 
there  would  be  no  hearts  broken,  George  mi^ht  OOme 
and  ^o  in  his  house  and  he  welcome. 

Mamie  Trimm's  nndetinable  chai-m  doubtless  covered 
a  multitude  of  defects.  She  was  of  course  very  well 
educated,  in  the  sense  in  which  that  elastic  term  is  gen 
erally  applied  to  all  yonn^  ^ir]s  ,,f  iu.r  ,da>s.  It  would 
be  more  true  to  say  that  she.  like  most  of  her  associates, 
had  been  expensively  educated.  Nothing  had  been 
omitted  which,  according  to  popular  social  belief  can 
contribute  to  the  production  of  a  refined  and  accom 
plished  feminine  mind.  She  had  been  taught  at  i;reat 
pains  a  number  of  subjects  of  which  she  remembered 
little,  but  of  which  the  transient  knowledge  had  con 
tributed  something  to  the  formation  ot  her  ta>te.  She 
had  been  instructed  in  the  French  language  with  a  care 
perhaps  not  al\\a\>  be>towed  upon  tin- subject  in  France, 
and  the  result  was  that  she  could  read  novels  written  in 
that  tongue  and.  under  .^reat  pressure  of  necessity,  rould 
conv. -r>e  toll- ral,l\  in  it.  though  the,  composition  of  the 
shortest  note  plun-ed  her  int..  a  despair  that  would  have 
l»eeii  comic  had  it  been  less  ival.  She  j)OSSessed  a  shad 
owy  ae«|iiaintanee  with  German  and  knew  a  score  of 
Italian  word>.  In  the  department  of  music,  seven  year- 
"1  >tudy  had  Ljiven  her  MUIIC  facility  in  playing  simple 
dauce  music,  and  she  was  able  to  accompany  a  song 


THE   THKEE    FATES.  195 

tolerably,  provided  the  movement  were  not  too  fast. 
On  the  other  hand  she  danced  to  perfection,  rode  well 
and  played  a  very  fair  game  of  lawn-tennis,  and  she  got 
even  more  credit  for  these  accomplishments  than  she 
deserved  because  her  naturally  transparent  complexion 
and  rather  thin  face  had  always  made  the  world  believe 
that  her  health  was  not  strong. 

In  character  she  was  neither  very  sincere,  nor  by  any 
means  unscrupulous.  Her  conscience  was  in  a  very 
natural  state,  considering  her  surroundings,  and  she 
represented  very  fairly  the  combination  of  her  mother's 
worldly  disposition  with  her  father's  cheerful,  generous 
and  loyal  nature.  She  was  far  too  much  in  love  with 
life  to  be  morbid,  and  far  too  sensible  to  invent  imag 
inary  trials.  She  had  never  thought  of  examining  her 
self,  any  more  than  she  would  have  thought  of  pulling 
off  a  butterfly's  wings  to  see  how  they  were  fastened  to 
its  body.  Her  simplicity  of  ideas  was  dashed  with  a 
sprinkling  of  sentimentality  which  was  natural  enough  at 
her  age,  but  of  which  she  felt  so  much  ashamed  that  she 
hid  it  jealously  from  her  father  and  mother  and  only 
showed  a  little  of  it  to  her  most  intimate  friend  when 
she  had  danced  a  little  too  long  or  suspected  herself  of 
having  nearly  accepted  an  offer  of  marriage.  It  was 
indeed  with  her,  rather  a  quality  than  a  weakness,  for  it 
sometimes  made  her  feel  that  life  did  not  consist  entirely 
in  waltzing  a  dozen  miles  every  night  and  in  talking  over 
the  race  the  next  morning.  The  only  visible  signs  of 
this  harmless  sentimentality  were  to  be  found  in  a  secret 
drawer  of  her  desk  and  took  the  shape  of  two  or  three 
dried  flowers,  a  scrap  of  ribband  and  a  dance  programme 
in  which  the  same  initials  were  scrawled  several  times. 
She  did  not  open  the  drawer  at  dead  of  night  and  kiss 
the  flowers,  nor  hold  the  faded  ribband  to  her  hair,  nor 
bedew  the  crumpled  little  bit  of  illuminated  cardboard 
with  her  warm  tears.  On  the  contrary  she  rarely, 
unlocked  the  receptacle  unless  it  were  to  add  some  new 
memento  to  the  collection,  and  011  such  occasions  the 


THE   THKEE    FATES. 

principal  reason  why  sin-  did  not  summarily  eject  the 
representatives  of  older  memories  was  that  she  felt  a 
sort  of  good-natured  pity  lor  them,  as  though  they  had 
been  living  things  and  might  be  hurt  by  being  thrown 
away.  Her  dainty  room  contained,  indeed  more  than 
one  object  given  her  by  (iroi^f  Wood,  liom  a  collection 
of  picture-books  that  bore  the  marks  of  age  and  rough 
usage,  to  her  first  tennis  racquet,  now  battered  ami  half 
unstrung,  and  from  that  to  a  pretty  toilet-clock  >et  in 
chiselled  silver  which  lier  cousin  had  given  her  on  her 
la>t  birthday,  U  a  sort  of  peace-ntTering  tor  his  neglect. 
It  never  would  have  entered  her  head,  however,  to  hide 
anything  she  had  received  from  him  in  the  secret  drawer. 
There  was  no  sentimentality  about  her  feelings  for  him, 
and  if  there  was  a  sentiment  it  was  of  the  better  and 
stronger  sort.  She  felt  that  she  had  a  right  to  like 
George,  and  that  his  gifts  had  a  right  to  be  seen.  Once 
or  twice,  of  late,  when  she  had  been  watching  him 
through  the  greater  part  of  an  evening  while  he  talked 
earnestly  with  Constance  Fearing.  Mamie  had  felt  an 
itching  iii  her  fingers  to  take  everything  he  had  given 
her  and  to  throw  all  into  the  street  together;  but  she 
had  always  been  glad  on  the  next  day  that  she  had  not 
yielded  to  the  destructive  impulse,  and  she  had  once 
dreamed  that,  having  carried  out  her  dire  intention 
(icor^e  had  picked  up  the  various  articles  in  the  street 
and  had  brought  them  back  to  her,  neatly  packed  in  a 
basket,  with  a  sardonic  smile  on  his  gra\e  lace.  Since 
then,  she  had  thought  more  ,,f  ( 'onMance  than  <>l  ' 
old  picture-books,  the  worn-out  rac<piet.  or  the  clock. 

Mamie  bore  no  malic.-  against  him.  however,  though 
she  was  beginning  to  dislike  the  name  of  Fearing  in  a 
way  that  Mirprixcd  herself.  If  GfoorgQ  talked  to  her  at 
.1  party,  she  was  always  herself,  graceful,  winning  and 
happy;  if  he  came  to  see  her.  the  >ame  words  of  welcome 
tOM  1"  her  lipx  and  the  same  soit  colour  flashed  through 
the  alabaster  of  her  cheek,  a  colour  which.  a>  her  mother 
thought,  should  not  have  come  xn  easily  lor  one  \\  ho  uas 


THE   THKEK    Js'ATE8.  197 

already  so  dear.  The  careful  Totty  heard  love's  light 
tread  afar  off  and  caught  the  gleam  of  his  weapons 
before  it  was  yet  day,  her  maternal  anxiety  had  been 
stirred,  and  the  devotion  of  the  social  tigress  to  her 
marriageable  young  had  been  roused  almost  to  the  point 
of  self-sacrifice.  Indeed,  she  had  more  than  once  inter 
rupted  some  pleasant  conversation  of  her  own,  in  order 
to  draw  Mamie  away  from  George,  and  more  than  once 
she  had  stayed  at  home  when  Mamie  was  tired  with  the 
dancing  of  the  previous  night  lest  in  her  absence  George's 
evil  genius  should  lead  him  to  the  house.  Fortunately 
for  her,  no  one  had  given  her  more  constant  and  valu 
able  assistance  than  George  himself,  which  was  the 
reason  why  Totty  had  not  ceased  to  like  him.  Had  he, 
011  his  part  seemed  as  glad  to  be  with  Mamie,  as  Mamie 
to  be  with  him,  the  claws  of  the  tigress  would  have 
fastened  upon  him  with  sudden  and  terrible  ferocity  and 
would  have  accompanied  him  to  the  front  door.  There 
would  now  in  all  likelihood  be  a  change  in  the  tigress's 
view  of  the  matter,  and  what  had  until  lately  seemed 
one  of  George's  best  recommendations,  would  soon  be 
regarded  in  the  light  of  a  serious  defect.  The  position 
of  the  invader  had  been  very  much  changed  since  the 
day  on  which  Totty  Trimm  had  been  left  alone  in  the 
strong  room  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  had  brought 
away  with  her  the  last  will  and  testament  of  Thomas 
Craik. 

If  George  had  ever  in  his  life  felt  anything  approach 
ing  to  love  for  Mamie,  he  could  not  have  failed  to  notice 
that  Totty  had  done  all  in  her  power  to  keep  the  two  apart 
during  the  past  three  years,  in  other  words  since  Mamie 
had  been  of  a  marriageable  age.  But  it  had  always 
been  a  matter  of  supreme  indifference  to  him  whether 
he  were  left  alone  with  her  or  not,  and  to-day  it  had  not 
struck  him  that  Totty  had  never  before  proposed  that 
he  should  go  and  spend  an  hour  with  her  daughter  when 
there  was  nobody  about.  Totty  herself,  if  her  heart  had 
not  been  bursting  with  an  anticipated  triumph,  would 


i  in.   THI:KI:    i  A TKS. 

have  been  more  cautious,  and  would  have  thought  twice 
iM-tore  making  her  suggestion  with  so  much  frankne^. 
In  the  moment  of  her  meeting  with  him  and  gue>sing  the 
truth  so  many  possibilities  had  suggested  themselves  to 
her  that  she  had  not  found  time  to  reflect,  and  she  had 
1'or  an  instant  entertained  the  idea  of  returning  imme 
diately  from  Washington  Square  to  her  own  home,  in 
order  to  find  George  there  and  perform  the  part  of  the 
>kilful  and  interested  consoler.  A  very  little  consider 
ation  showed  her  that  this  would  he  an  unwise  course  to 
pursue,  and  she  had  adopted  a  plan  infinitely  more  diplo 
matic,  of  which  the  results  will  be  seen  and  appreciated 
before  long.  In  the  meantime  (ieorge  Wood  was  seated 
beside  Mamie  and  her  flowers,  listening  to  her  talk,  an 
swering  her  remarks  rather  vaguely,  and  wondering  why 
he  was  alive,  and  since  he  was  alive,  why  he  was  in  that 
particular  place. 

"You  look  tired,  George,"  said  the  young  girl,  study 
ing  his  face.  "You  look  almost  ill." 

"Do  I?  I  am  all  right.  I  have  been  doing  a  lot  «•! 
work  lately.  And  you,  Mamie — what  i>  tin-  matter'.' 
Your  mother  told  me  just  now  that  you  had  a  had  cold. 
I  hope  it  is  nothing  serious." 

"Oh,  it  1&  nothing,  I  wanted  to  read  your  book,  and 
I  did  not  want  to  make  visit>.  and  I  had  just  enough  of 
a  cold  to  mak  •  a  good  excuse.  A  cold  is  so  useful  some- 
times  —  it  is  just  the  same  thing  that  your  writing  is  to 
you.  Everybody  believes  it  is  inevitable,  and  then  one 
can  do  as  one  pleases.  I>ut  you  really  do  look  dreadfully. 
Have  some  tea  —  with  a  stick  in  it  as  papa  calls  it." 

Mamie  laughed  a  little  at  her  own  use  of  the  slang 
term,  though  her  eyes  showed  that  she  was  really  made 
anxious  by  (forge's  appearance. 

"Thank  you."  he  answered.  "I  do  not  want  anything, 
but  I  am  very  tired,  and  when  your  mother  told  me  you 
were  all  alone  at  home  1  thought  it  would  do  me  good  to 
.•i. mi-  and  May  with  you  a  little  while,  if  you  would  talk 

ko  mt 


THE   THREE    FATES.  199 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  came.  I  have  not  seen  much  of  you, 
lately."  There  was  a  ring  of  regret  in  her  voice. 

"  You  have  been  so  gay.  How  can  I  get  at  you  when 
you  are  racing  through  society  all  the  year  round  from 
morning  till  night?" 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  that,  George,  and  you  know  it  is  not ! 
We  have  often  been  in  the  same  gay  places  together,  and 
you  hardly  ever  come  near  me,  though  I  would  much 
rather  talk  with  you  than  with  all  the  other  men." 

"^N"o  you  would  not  —  and  if  you  would,  you  are  such 
a  raving  success,  as  they  call  it,  this  year,  that  you  are 
always  surrounded  —  unless  you  are  sitting  in  corners 
with  the  pinks  of  desirability  whose  very  shoe-strings 
are  a  cut  above  the  < likes  o'  me.'  When  are  you  going 
to  marry,  Mamie?" 

"When  somebody  asks  me,  sir  —  she  said,"  laughed 
the  young  girl. 

"Who  is  somebody?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  answered  Mamie  with  an  infinitesi 
mal  sigh.  "People  have  asked  me,  you  know,"  she 
added  with  another  laugh,  "any  number  of  them." 

"But  not  the  particular  somebody  who  haunts  your 
dreams?"  asked  George. 

"  He  has  not  even  begun  to  haunt  me  yet.  You  do, 
though.  I  dreamed  of  you  the  other  night." 

"You?     How  odd!     What  did  you  dream  about  me?" 

"  Such  a  funny  dream !  "  said  Mamie,  leaning  forward 
and  smelling  the  roses  beside  her.  It  struck  George  as 
strange  that  the  colour  from  the  dark  red  petals  should 
be  thrown  up  into  her  face  by  the  rays  of  the  sun,  though 
he  knew  something  of  the  laws  of  incidence  and  reflec 
tion. 

"  I  dreamed, "  continued  Mamie,  still  holding  the  roses, 
"that  I  was  very  angry  with  you.  Then  I  took  all  the 
things  you  ever  gave  me,  the  picture-books,  and  the 
broken  doll,  and  the  old  racquet  and  the  clock  —  by 
the  by,  it  goes  beautifully  —  and  I  threw  them  all  out  of 
my  window  into  the  street.  And,  of  course,  you  were 


200  THE    THKKF    FATES. 

passing  ju>t  ;it  th;it  moment,  and  you  brought  them  all 
into  the  house  in  a  basket,  nicely  done  up  in  pink  paper, 
and  handed  them  bark  to  me  with  that  horrid  smile  you 
have  when  YOU  an-  going  to  sav  something  perfectly 
hateful." 

"And  then,  what  happened?"  inquired  George,  who 
was  amused  in  spite  of  himself. 

"Oh,  nothing.  E  suppose  I  woke  just  then.  I  laughed 
over  it  the  next  mom  ing." 

"But  what  made  you  SO  angry  with  me?" 

"Nothing  —  that  is  —  the  usual  thing.  The  way  you 
always  behave  to  me  at  parties." 

George  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  second,  before  he 
spoke  again. 

"Do  you  mean  to  >ay  that  you  really  care,"  he  asked, 
"  whether  I  talk  to  you  at  parties,  or  not?  " 

"  Of  course  I  care !  "  exclaimed  the  young  girl.  '•  What 
a  question ! " 

"I  am  sure  I  cannot  see  why.  I  am  not  a  very  amus 
ing  person.  Hut  MIKM-  you  would  like  me  to  talk  to  you, 
I  will,  as  much  as  you  please." 

"It  is  too  late  now,"  answered  Mamie,  laying  down 
the  roses  she  had  held  so  long.  "  Kvery thing  is  over,  or 
will  be  in  a  day  or  two.  and  you  will  not  get  a  chance 
unless  you  come  and  .stay  with  us  this  summer.  Why 
do  you  never  come  and  stay  with  us0  I  have  often  won 
dered." 

"I  was  never  a^ked."  said  George  indifferently.  "I 
could  not  well  come  without  an  invitation.  And  besides, 
I  have  •_:<•] ii Tally  been  very  busy  in  the  summer." 

"Did  they  never  ask  you  /  "  inquired  Mamie  in  evident 
Mirprise.  "  Mamma  mn>t  have  forgot  ten  it/" 

"I  daresay,"  George  replied,  rather  dreamily.  1 1  is 
thought^  wen-  wandering  1'rom  the  conversation. 

"She  shall,  this  time."  .said  Mamie  with  considerable 
emphasis.  Then  there  was  silence  for  some  moments. 

George  did  not  know  what  she  was  thinking  and  cared 
very  little  to  inquire.  He  was  conscious  that  the  sur- 


THE   THREE   FATES.  201 

roundings  in  which  he  found  himself  were  soothing  to 
his  humour,  that  Mamie's  harmless  talk  was  pleasant  to 
his  ear,  and  that  if  he  had  gone  anywhere  else  on  that 
afternoon,  he  might  have  committed  some  act  of  folly 
which  would  have  had  serious  consequences.  He  was 
neither  able  nor  anxious  to  understand  his  own  state, 
since,  whatever  it  might  be,  he  desired  to  escape  from 
it,  and  he  was  grateful  for  all  external  circumstances 
which  helped  his  forgetfulness.  He  was  no  doubt  con 
scious  that  it  would  be  out  of  the  question  to  recover 
from  such  a  shock  as  he  had  received  without  passing 
through  much  suffering  on  his  way  to  ultimate  consola 
tion.  But  he  had  been  stunned  and  overcome  by  what 
had  happened.  The  first  passion  of  almost  uncontrol 
lable  anger  that  swept  over  his  nature  had  left  him  dull 
and  almost  apathetic  for  the  time,  bruised  and  willing 
to  accept  thankfully  any  peace  that  he  could  find. 

Presently,  Mamie  turned  the  conversation  to  his  books 
and  talked  enthusiastically  of  his  success.  She  had  read 
what  he  had  written  with  greater  care  and  understanding 
than  he  had  expected  of  her,  and  she  quoted  whole  pas 
sages  from  his  novels,  puzzling  him  sometimes  with  her 
questions,  but  pleasing  him  in  spite  of  himself  by  her 
sincere  and  admiring  appreciation.  At  last  he  rose  to 
leave  her. 

"I  wish  you  would  stay,"  she  said  regretfully.  But 
he  shook  his  head.  "  Why  not  stay  the  rest  of  the  after 
noon?"  she  suggested.  "We  are  not  going  out  this 
evening  and  you  could  dine  with  us,  just  as  you1  are." 

This  was  altogether  more  than  George  wanted.  HP 
did  not  care  to  meet  Totty  again  on  that  day. 

"Then  come  again  soon,"  said  Mamie.  " I  have  en 
joyed  it  so  much  —  and  we  are  not  going  out  of  town  for 
another  fortnight." 

"But  you  may  not  have  another  cold,  Mamie,"  George 
observed. 

"  Oh,  I  will  always  have  a  cold,  if  you  will  come  and 
sit  with  me,"  answered  the  young  girl. 


202  THK    Till:  I .!.    I"  \  TKS. 

When  George  was  once  more  in  the  street,  he  stared 
about  him  as  though  not  knowing  where  In-  was.  Then. 
when  the  full  force  of  liis  disappointment  struck  liiin  for 
the  second  time,  he  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  IK-  had 
he, MI  spending  an  hour  in  careless  conversation  with  his 
cousin.  He  looked  at  his  watch  mechanically,  and  saw 
that  it  was  late  in  the  afternoon.  It  was  as  though  a 
dream  had  separated  him  from  his  last  interview  with 
Constance  Fearing,  of  that,  at  least,  he  had  forgotten 
nothing;  not  a  word  of  what  she  had  said,  or  of  what  In- 
had  answered,  had  escaped  his  memory,  every  syllable 
was  burned  into  the  page  of  his  day.  Then  came  the 
great  question,  which  had  not  suggested  itself  at  first. 
Why  had  all  this  happened?  What  hidden  reason  was 
there  in  obedi.-nce  to  which  Constance  had  so  suddenly 
cast  him  off?  Had  she  weakly  yielded  to  Grace's  in 
fluence?  He  had  little  faith  in  Grace's  assurance  that 
she  had  been  silent,  nor  in  Constance's  confirmation  of 
the  statement.  And  Constance  was  weak.  He  had  often 
suspected  it,  and  had  even  wondered  whether  she  would 
withstand  the  pressure  brought  to  bear  upon  her  and 
against  himself.  Yet  her  weakness  alone  did  not  ex 
plain  what  she  had  done.  It  had  needed  strength  of 
some  sort  to  face  him,  to  tell  him  to  his  face  what  she 
had  first  told  him  through  her  sister's  words.  Hut  her 
weakness  had  shown  itself  even  then.  She  had  wept  and 
hidden  her  face  and  cried  out  that  he  was  breaking  her 
heart,  when  she  was  breaking  his.  George  ground  his 
heel  upon  the  pavement. 

Her  heart,  indeed:  She  had  none.  She  was  but  a 
compound  of  nerves,  prettiness  and  vanit\,  and  he  had 
believed  her  the  noblest,  hravot  and  he>t  of  women.  He 
had  lavished  upon  her  with  his  lips  and  in  his  books 
such  language  as  would  have  honoured  a  goddess,  and 
she  had  turned  out  to  be  only  a  weak  .shallow-hearted 
•jirl.  ready  to  break  an  ln>ne>t  man's  heart,  because  she 
did  not  know  her  own  mind.  He  cursed  his  ignorance 
of  human  nature  and  of  woman's  love,  as  he  strode  along 


THE   THREE   FATES.  208 

the  street  toward  his  own  home.  Yet,  rave  as  he  would, 
he  could  not  hate  her,  lie  could  not  get  rid  of  the  sharp 
pain  that  told  him  he  had  lost  what  he  held  most  dear 
and  was  widowed  of  what  he  had  loved  best. 

When  he  was  at  home  and  in  his  own  room  he  became 
apathetic  again.  He  had  never  known  himself  subject 
to  such  sudden  changes  of  humour  and  at  first  he  vaguely 
imagined  that  he  was  going  to  be  ill,  and  that  his  nerves 
would  break  down.  His  father  had  not  yet  come  home 
from  the  walk  which  was  a  part  of  his  regular  mode  of 
life.  George  sat  in  his  deep  old  easy-chair  by  the  corner 
of  his  table  and  wondered  whether  all  men  who  were 
disappointed  in  love  felt  it  as  he  did.  He  tried  to  smoke 
and  then  gave  it  up  in  disgust.  He  rose  from  his  seat 
and  attempted  to  arrange  the  papers  that  lay  in  heaps 
about  the  place  where  he  wrote,  but  his  fingers  trem 
bled  oddly  and  he  felt  alternately  hot  and  cold.  He 
opened  a  book  and  tried  to  read,  but  the  effort  to  concen 
trate  his  attention  was  maddening.  He  felt  as  though 
he  must  be  stifled  in  the  little  room  that  had  always 
seemed  a  haven  of  rest  before,  and  yet  he  did  not  know 
where  to  go.  He  threw  open  the  window  and  stood 
looking  at  the  rows  of  windows  just  visible  above  the 
brick  wall  at  the  back  of  the  road.  The  shadows  were 
deepening  below  and  the  sky  above  was  already  stained 
with  the  glow  of  evening.  The  prospect  was  not  beauti 
ful,  but  the  cool  air  that  fanned  his  face  was  pleasant  to 
his  senses,  and  he  remained  standing  a  long  time,  so  long 
indeed  that  the  stars  began  to  shine  overhead  before  he 
drew  back  and  returned  to  his  seat.  Far  down  in  his 
sensitive  character  there  was  a  passionate  love  of  all 
that  is  beautiful  in  the  outer  world.  He  hid  it  from 
every  one,  for  some  reason  which  he  could  not  explain, 
but  he  occasionally  let  it  show  itself  in  his  writings  and 
the  passages  in  which  he  had  written  of  nature  as  it 
affected  him,  had  not  failed  to  be  noticed  for  their  pecu 
liar  grace  and  tenderness  of  execution.  Since  he  had 
begun  to  write  books  all  nature  had  become  associated 


204  THK   THKKK   FATES. 


with  ('install'-'-  He  had  oiten  wondered  what  the  con- 
uecting  link  could  be,  but  had  found  no  answer  to  tin- 
question.  A  star  in  the  evening  sky,  a  ray  of  moonlight 
upon  rippling  water,  the  glow  of  the  sunset  over  drifted 
snow,  the  winnowed  light  of  summer's  afternoon  beneath 
old  trees,  the  scent  of  roses  wet  with  dew,  the  sweet 
smell  of  country  lanes  when  a  shower  had  passed  by- 
all  these  tilings  acted  like  a  charm  upon  him  to  raise,  the 
vision  of  Constance  before  his  eyes.  To-night,  he  could 
not  bear  to  look  at  the  bright  planet  that  was  shining  in 
that  strip  of  exquisitely  soft  sky  above  the  hard  brick 
buildings. 

That  evening  he  sat  with  his  father,  a  rather  rare 
OOQQimnoe  since  lie  had  gone  so  much  into  the  world. 
The  old  gentleman  had  looked  often  at  him  during  their 
meal  but  had  said  nothing  alnmt  the  careworn  look  of 
exhaustion  that  he  saw  in  his  son's  faee.  It  was  m-arh 
ten  o'clock  when  Jonah  Wood  laid  down  his  hook  by  his 
side  and  raised  his  eyes.  (leorge  had  been  trying  to 
read  also,  and  during  the  last  half-hour  he  had  almost 
BuoeeedecL 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  George?"  asked  his 
father. 

George  let  his  book  fall  upon  his  knee  and  .stared  at 
the  lamp  for  a  few  seconds.  He  did  not  uant  s\  mpathy 
from  his  father  nor  from  any  on-  else,  but  as  he  supposed 
that  he  would  be  unable  to  conceal  his  nervousness  and 
ill  temper  for  a  long  time  to  come,  and  as  his  father  was 

the    person    who    Would    Miflel     tile    eMlise(|UencfS    of    both. 
lie  thought    it    better   to  speak   out. 

"  I  do  not  think  there  is  anything  the  matter  with  my 
bodih  condition."  he  answered  at  last.  "1  am  afraid  1 
am  bad  compam.  and  shall  be  for  a  lew  days.  This 
afternoon.  Mi^  Fearing  refused  to  marr\  me.  1  loved 
her.  That  is  what  is  the  matter,  father." 

.lonah  Wood  nnci-o>srd  his  leg*  and  crossed  them  again 
in  tin-  opposite  wa\  rather  suddenly,  which  was  his 
.  -sp.-.-i.il  manner  when  he  \\as  very  much  surprised. 


THE   THREE   FATES.  205 

Mechanically,  lie  took  up  his  book  again,  and  held  it 
before  his  eyes.  Then  his  answer  came  at  last  in  a 
rather  indistinct  voice. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,  George.  I  had  thought  she 
was  a  nice  girl.  But  you  are  well  out  of  it.  I  never  did 
think  much  of  women,  anyhow,  except  your  dear  mother." 

So  far  as  words  went,  that  was  all  the  consolation 
George  got  from  his  father;  but  he  knew  better  than  to 
suppose  that  the  old  gentleman  would  waste  language  in 
condolence,  whatever  he  might  feel.  That  he  felt  some 
thing,  and  that  strongly,  was  quite  evident  from  the  fact 
that  although  he  conscientiously  held  his  book  before 
his  eyes  during  the  half -hour  that  followed,  he  never 
once  turned  over  the  page. 

George  rested  little  that  night,  and  when  at  last  he  was 
sound  asleep  in  the  broad  daylight,  he  was  awakened  by 
a  knock  at  the  door  and  a  voice  calling  him.  On  looking 
out  a  note  was  handed  to  him,  addressed  in  Totty  Trimm's 
brisk,  slanting,  ladylike  writing.  He  was  told  that  an 
answer  was  expected  and  that  the  messenger  was  wait 
ing. 

"  Dear  George, "  Totty  wrote,  "  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
amazed  and  distressed  I  am.  I  do  hope  there  is  not  a 
word  of  truth  in  it,  and  that  you  will  write  me  so  at 
once.  It  is  all  over  New  York  that  Conny  Fearing  has 
jilted  you  in  the  most  abominable  way !  Of  course  we 
all  knew  that  you  had  been  engaged  ever  so  long.  If 
it  is  true,  she  is  a  cruel,  heartless,  horrid  girl,  and  she 
never  deserved  you.  Do  write,  and  do  come  and  see  me 
this  afternoon.  I  shall  not  go  out  at  all  for  fear  of 
missing  you.  I  am  so,  so  sorry!  In  haste. — Your 
affectionate  TOTTY." 

George  swore  a  great  oath,  then  and  there.  He  had 
not  mentioned  the  subject  to  any  one  but  his  father,  so 
that  either  Constance  or  Grace  must  have  told  what  had 
happened. 

That  the  story  really  was  "all  over  New  York,"  as 
Totty  expressed  it,  he  found  out  very  soon. 


206  THE   THREE   FATES. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Totty  had  lost  no  time  in  spreading  the  report  that 
everything  was  broken  off  between  George  Wood  and 
Constance  Fearing,  and  she  had  done  it  so  skilfully  that 
no  one  would  have  thought  of  tracing  the  story  to  her, 
even  if  it  had  proved  to  be  false.  She  had  cared  very 
little  what  George  himself  thought  about  it,  though  she 
had  not  failed  to  see  that  he  would  lay  the  blame  of  the 
gossip  on  the  Fearings.  The  two  girls,  indeed,  could 
have  no  object  in  circulating  a  piece  of  news  which  did 
not  reflect  much  credit  upon  themselves.  What  Totty 
wanted  was  in  the  first  place  that  George  should  know 
that  she  was  acquainted  with  his  position,  in  order  that 
she  might  play  the  part  of  the  comforter  and  earn  his 
gratitude.  She  could  not  of  course  question  him  directly, 
and  she  was  therefore  obliged  to  appear  as  having  heard 
the  tale  from  others;  to  manage  this  with  success,  it  was 
necessary  that  the  circumstances  of  the  case  should  be 
made  common  property.  Secondly,  and  here  Totty's 
diplomatic  instinct  showed  itself  at  its  strongest,  she 
was  determined  to  prevent  all  po>sihility  of  a  renewal 
of  relations  between  Constance  and  George.  In  due 
time,  probably  in  twenty-four  hours  at  the  latest,  both 
Constance  and  Grace  would  know  that  all  society  was  in 
possession  of  their  seoiet,  Having  of  course  not  men 
Honed  it  themselves  to  any  one,  they  would  feel  sure 
that  (ieor^c  had  betrayed  them  in  his  anther,  and  would 
be  proportionately  ine,-n>ed  a-ainst  him.  If  both  parties 
should  be  00  angry  as  to  come  to  an  explanation)  which 
was  improbable,  neither  would  believe  the  other,  the 
quarrel  would  grow  and  the  breach  would  be  widened. 
Totty  herself  would  of  course  take  George's  part.  M 
would  the  majority  of  his  acquaintance,  and  he  would 
lie  grateful  for  such  friendly  support  at  so  trying  a  time. 
Matters  turned  out  very  nearly  as  Mrs.  Sherrington 


THE  THKEE  FATES.  207 

Trimm  had  anticipated.  There  was,  indeed,  a  slight 
variation  in  the  programme,  but  she  was  not  aware  of  it 
at  the  time,  and  if  she  had  noticed  it  she  would  not  have 
attached  to  it  the  importance  it  deserved.  It  chanced 
that  Constance  and  Grace  Fearing  and  George  Wood  had 
been  asked  with  certain  other  guests  to  dine  with  a  cer 
tain  young  couple  lately  returned  from  their  wedding 
tour  in  Europe.  The  invitations  had  been  sent  and 
accepted  011  the  last  day  of  April,  that  is  to  say  on  the 
day  preceding  the  one  on  which  Constance  gave  George 
her  definite  refusal,  and  the  dinner  was  to  take  place 
three  or  four  days  later.  Now  the  young  couple,  who 
had  bought  a  small  place  on  the  Hudson  river,  and  were 
anxious  to  move  into  it  as  soon  as  possible,  took  advan 
tage  of  those  three  or  four  days  to  go  up  to  their  country- 
house  and  to  arrange  it  for  themselves  according  to  their 
ideas  of  comfort.  They  returned  to  town  on  the  morn 
ing  of  their  party  and  were  of  course  ignorant  of  the 
gossip  which  had  gone  the  rounds  in  their  absence. 
Late  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  the  husband  came  home 
from  his  club  in  great  distress  to  tell  his  wife  that  Con 
stance  Fearing  had  thrown  over  George  Wood  and  that 
the  two  were  not  on  speaking  terms.  It  was  too  late  to 
make  any  excuse  to  their  guests,  so  as  to  divide  the  party 
and  give  two  separate  dinners  on  different  days.  The 
worst  of  it  was,  that  their  table  was  small,  the  guests 
had  been  carefully  arranged,  and  George  Wood  must 
inevitably  sit  beside  either  Constance  or  Grace.  The 
young  couple  were  in  despair  and  spent  all  the  time  that 
was  left  in  trying  vainly  to  redistribute  the  places. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  put  George  next  to 
Grace  and  to  effect  a  total  ignorance  of  the  difficulty. 
At  the  last  moment,  however,  the  young  hostess  thought 
she  could  improve  matters  by  speaking  a  word  to  George 
when  he  arrived.  Constance  and  her  sister,  however, 
came  before  him. 

"  I  am  so  sorry ! "  said  the  lady  of  the  house  quickly 
m  the  ear  of  the  elder  girl,  as  she  drew  her  a  little  aside. 


TIM-:  THKKK  FATKS. 

%>  Mr.  \\ood   is  coming  ---  we  have  been  out  of  town,  ami 
knew  nothing  about  it — 1  do  hope • 

"  I  am  very  glad  he  is  to  be  hriv."  answered  Constance. 
She  was  very  pale  and  very  calm. 

••nh  dear!"  exclaimed  tin-  hostess,  growing  very  ml. 
'•  I  hope  I  have  said  nothing 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Constance  reassuring  her.  "Then- 
is  a  foolish  hit  of  gossip  in  the  air.  I  helieve.  The,  facts 
are  very  simple.  Mr.  Wood  i>  a  very  old  and  good  friend 
of  mine.  He  asked  me  to  marry  him.  and  I  could  not. 
I  like  him  very  much  and  I  hop*-  we  shall  l>e  as  good 
friends  as  before.  If  there  is  any  Maine  in  tin-  matter 
1  wish  to  bear  it.  There  he  ig.M 

The  hostess  felt  better  after  this,  but  her  curiosity 
was  excited,  and  as  George  entered  th-  room  she  went 
forward  to  meet  him. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said.  "The  Fearings  are  here 
and  you  will  have  to  sit  next  to  the  younger  one.  You 
see  we  have  only  just  heard  —  I  am  so  sorry." 

George  Wood  inclined  his  head  a  little.  He  was  very 
quiet  and  grave. 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you  at  once,"  he  said,  "that  there 
is  not  a  word  of  truth  in  the  story  they  are  telling.  I 
shall  be  very  much  obliged  if  you  will  deny  it  when  you 
hear  it  mentioned.  There  never  was  any  engagement 
l>etween  Miss  Fearing  and  me." 

"Well,  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it.  Tray,  forgive  me." 
said  the  lady  of  the  house. 

George  met  <  'onstanee  with  his  most  impenetrably  civil 
manner  and  they  exchanged  a  few  words  which  neither 
of  them  understood  while  they  were  spraking  them,  nor 
rememhen-d  afterwards.  They  Imth  spoke  in  a  low 
voice  and  the  impression  produced  upon  the  many  curi 
ous  eyes  that  watched  them  was  that  they  wen-  on  \<T\ 
good  terms,  though  .slightly  embarrassed  by  the  con 
sciousness  that  they  were  being  so  much  talked  of. 

At   the    dinner-table    ( Jeorge    found    himself  next  to 
For  sMiii,-   time  he  talked  with  his  neighbour  on 


THE   THREE   FATES.  209 

his  other  side,  then  turned  and  inquired  when  Grace  and 
her  sister  were  going  out  of  town,  and  what  they  intended 
to  do  during  the  summer.  She,  on  her  part,  while 
answering  his  questions,  looked  at  him  with  an  air  of 
cold  and  scornful  surprise.  Presently  there  was  a  brief 
burst  of  general  conversation.  Under  cover  of  the 
numerous  voices  Grace  asked  a  direct  question. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  telling  such  a  story  as  every 
one  is  repeating  about  my  sister?  "  she  asked. 

George's  eyes  gleamed  angrily  for  a  moment  and  his 
answer  came  sharply  and  quickly. 

"  You  would  do  better  to  ask  that  of  yourself  —  or  of 
Miss  Fearing.  I  have  said  nothing." 

"  I  do  not  intend  to  discuss  the  matter,"  Grace  answered 
icily.  "  If  the  story  were  true  it  would  hurt  us  and  we 
should  not  tell  it.  But  it  is  a  lie,  and  a  malicious  lie." 
She  turned  her  head  away. 

"  Miss  Fearing, "  George  said,  bending  towards  her  a  lit 
tle,  "  I  do  not  intend  to  be  accused  of  such  doings  by  any 
one.  Do  you  understand?  If  you  will  take  the  trouble 
to  ask  the  man  on  your  left,  he  will  tell  you  that  I  have 
denied  the  story  everywhere  during  the  last  four  days." 

Grace  looked  at  him  again,  and  there  was  a  change  in 
her  face.  She  was  about  to  say  something  in  reply, 
when  the  general  talk,  which  had  allowed  them  to  speak 
together  unheard,  was  interrupted  by  an  unexpected 
pause. 

"  Do  you  prefer  Bar  Harbour  to  Newport,  Miss  Fear 
ing?  "  George  inquired  in  a  tone  which  led  every  one  to 
suppose  that  they  had  been  discussing  the  comparative 
merits  of  watering-places. 

The  young  girl  smiled  as  she  made  an  indifferent 
answer.  She  liked  the  man's  coolness  and  tact  in  such 
small  things.  He  was  ready,  imperturbable  and  deter 
mined,  possessing  three  of  the  qualities  which  women 
like  best  in  man.  A  little  later  another  chance  of 
exchanging  a  few  words  presented  itself.  This  time 
( rrace  spoke  less  abruptly  and  coldly. 


210  THK   THKKK    FAT1  - 

"It   you  have    s;ii<l    nothing,   who   has   told   the   tale?" 

she  asked. 

"I  do  not  know,"  George  answered,  keeping  his  clear 
eyes  fixed  on  hers.  "  If  I  knew,  I  would  tell  you.  It 
is  a  malicious  lit-,  as  you  say,  and  it  must  have  been  set 
aHoat  by  a  malicious  person — by  some  one  who  hates 
us  all." 

"Some  one  who  hates  my  sister  and  me.  It  cannot 
injure  you  in  any  way." 

'' That  is  true, "  said  (Jcorge.  " It  had  not  struck  me 
at  first,  because  I  was  so  angry  at  hearing  the  story. 
Does  your  sister  imagine  that  I  have  had  anything  to  do 
wit  hit?" 

"Yes,"  Grace  answered,  and  her  lip  curled  a  little. 
George  misunderstood  her  expression  and  drew  hack 
rather  proudly.  The  fact  was  that  Grace  was  thinking 
how  Constance  accused  herself  every  day  of  having  been 
heartless  and  cruel,  declaring  in  her  self-abasement  that 
even  if  George  had  chosen  to  tell  the  story  he  would  have 
had  something  very  like  a  right  to  do  so.  Grace  had  no 
patience  with  what  she  regarded  as  her  sister's  weakin^-. 

To  the  delight  of  the  young  couple  who  gave  the  din 
ner  it  passed  off  very  pleasantly.  There  had  been  no 
apparent  coldness  anywhere,  and  they  were  persuaded 
that  none  existed. 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  your  sister  what  I 
have  told  you'.' "  said  George  to  his  neighbour  ;ls  they 
fOee  from  the  table. 

"If  you  like."  she  answered   indifferently.      "Unless 
you  prefer  to  tell  her  yourself."     The  emphasis  .she  put 
on  the  last   part  of  the  sentence   showed  plainly  enough 
what  her  opinion  was. 
I  will,"  he  said. 

A  little  later  iii  the  evening  lie  sat  down  by  Constance 
in  a  comparatively  ipiiet  corner  of  the  small  drawing- 
room. 

"\Vill  vou  allow  me  to  sav  a  few  words  to  you?"  he 
asked. 


THE  THREE   FATES.  21 1 

She  looked  at  him  in  pathetic  surprise,  and  if  he  had 
been  a  little  more  vain  than  he  was,  he  would  have  seen 
that  she  was  grateful  to  him  for  coming  to  her. 

"I  am  always  glad  when  you  talk  to  me,"  she  said, 
and  her  voice  trembled  perceptibly. 

"  You  are  very  good, "  he  answered  in  a  tone  that  meant 
nothing.  "  I  would  not  trouble  you  if  it  did  not  seem 
necessary.  I  have  been  talking  about  the  matter  to  your 
sister  at  dinner.  I  wish  you  to  know  that  T  have  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  invention  of  the  story  that  is 
going  the  rounds  of  the  town.  I  have  denied  it  to  every 
one,  and  I  shall  continue  to  deny  it." 

Constance  glanced  timidly  at  him,  and  then  sighed  as 
though  she  were  relieved  of  a  burden. 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  have  told  me, "  she  said. 

"Do  you  believe  me?"  he  asked. 

"  I  have  always  believed  everything  you  have  told  me, 
and  I  always  shall.  But  if  you  had  told  some  one  what 
everybody  is  repeating,  I  should  not  have  blamed  you. 
It  would  have  been  almost  true." 

"I  do  not  say  things  which  are  only  almost  tme," 
said  George  very  coldly. 

Constance's  face,  which  had  regained  some  of  its  nat 
ural  colour  while  she  had  been  speaking  with  him,  grew 
very  white  again,  her  lip  trembled  and  there  were  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

"Are  you  always  going  to  treat  me  like  this?"  she 
asked,  pronouncing  the  words  with  difficulty,  as  thougli 
a  sob  were  very  near. 

If  George  had  said  one  kind  word  at  that  moment,  his 
history  and  hers  might  have  been  very  different  from 
that  day  onwards.  But  the  wound  he  had  received  was 
yet  too  fresh,  and  moreover  he  was  angry  with  her  for 
showing  a  tendency  to  cry,  and  he  hardened  his  heart. 

"I  trust,"  he  answered  in  a  chilly  tone,  "that  we  shall 
always  meet  on  the  best  of  terms." 

A  long  silence  followed,  during  which  it  was  evident 
that  Constance  was  struggling  to  maintain  some  appear- 


•Jl-J  i  HI-:    nii;i:i:   i  A  n-:s. 

ance  c{'  outward  calm.  When  she  felt  that  slit- 
command  her  strength,  sin-  rose  and  left  liim  without 
another  won  I.  It  was  the  only  thing  left  tor  her  to  d<>. 
Sh»-  could  not  allow  herself  to  break  down  in  a  room  full 
of  people,  before  every  one.  and  she  could  not  .stay  where 
she  was  without  Inn-sting  into  tears.  She  had  humbled 
herself  to  the  utmost,  she  had  been  ready  to  offer  every 
atonement  in  her  j.ower,  and  he  had  met  her  witli  a 
face  of  stone  and  a  voice  that  cut  her  like  steel. 

That  was  the  last  time  he  saw  her  before  the  summer 
season.  She  and  her  sister  left  town  suddenly  the  next 
day  and  George  was  left  to  his  own  devices  and  to  the 
tender  consolation  that  was  showered  upon  him  by  Totty 
Trinnn.  Hut  he  was  not  easily  consoled.  As  the  day- 
followed  each  other  his  face  grew  darker  and  his  humour 
more  gloomy.  He  could  neither  work  nor  read  with  any 
>at  i-taction  and  he  found  even  less  pleasure  in  the  society 
of  men  and  women  than  in  his  own.  He  would  not  have 
married  Constance  now,  if  she  had  ottered  herself  to  him. 
and  implored  him  to  take  her.  Jf  it  had  been  possible, 
he  would  gladly  have  gone  abroad  for  a  few  months,  in 
the  hope  of  forgetting  what  had  happened  to  him  amidst 
the  varied  discomforts,  amusements  and  interests  of 
travelling.  Hut  he  could  not  throw  up  certain  engage 
ments  he  had  OOntracted,  though  at  tirst  it  >eemcd  impos 
sible  to  fulfil  them.  He  promised  himself  that  as  soon 
as  he  had  accomplished  his  task  he  would  start  upon  a 
journey  without  giving  himself  the  trouble  of  defining 
its  ultimate  direction.  For  the  present  he  remained 
sullenly  in  New  York,  sitting  for  hours  at  his  table,  a 
peu  held  idly  between  his  lingers,  his  uneasy  glance 
wandering  from  the  paper  before  him  to  the  wall  oppo 
site,  from  the  wall  to  the  window,  from  the  window  to 
his  paper  again.  He  was  neither  despondent  m>r  hope 
less.  The  HP > re  impossible  he  ioiind  it  to  begin  his  work, 
the  more  unyieldingly  he  forced  himself  to  sit  in  his 
chair,  the  more  doggedly  he  stuck  to  his  determination. 
Writing  had  always  seemed  eas\  to  him  before,  and  he 


THE   THKKE   FATES. 

admitted  no  reason  for  its  being  hard  now.  With  iron 
resolution  he  kept  his  place,  revolving  in  his  mind  every 
situation  and  story  of  which  he  had  ever  heard  and  of 
which  he  believed  he  could  make  use.  But  though  he 
turned,  and  twisted,  and  tormented  every  idea  that  pre 
sented  itself,  he  could  find  neither  plot  nor  scene  nor 
characters  in  the  aching  void  of  his  brain.  Hour  after 
hour,  day  after  day,  he  did  his  best,  growing  thinner 
and  more  tired  every  day,  feeling  each  afternoon  more 
exhausted  by  the  fruitless  contest  lie  was  sustaining 
against  the  apathy  of  his  intelligence.  But  when  the 
stated  time  for  work  was  past,  and  he  pushed  back  the 
sheet  of  paper,  sometimes  as  white  as  when  he  had  taken 
it  in  the  morning,  sometimes  covered  with  incoherent 
notes  that  were  utterly  worthless,  when  he  felt  that  he 
had  done  his  duty  and  could  not  be  held  responsible  for 
the  miserable  result,  when  his  head  ached,  his  brow  was 
furrowed,  and  his  sight  had  become  uncertain,  then  at 
last  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  contemplation  of  his  own 
wretchedness  and  to  the  pain  of  his  utter  desolation. 

Totty  did  her  best  to  attract  him  to  her  house  as  often 
as  possible.  He  was  vaguely  surprised  that  she  should 
stay  so  long  in  town,  but  he  troubled  himself  very  little 
about  her  motives,  and  as  he  never  made  any  remark  to 
her  on  the  subject,  she  volunteered  no  explanation.  She 
would  have  found  it  hard  to  invent  one  if  she  had  been 
pressed  to  do  so.  It  was  hotter  than  usual  at  that  season, 
and  Mamie  was  greatly  in  need  of  a  change.  Totty 
could  not  plead  a  desire  to  make  economies  as  a  plausi 
ble  excuse  with  any  chance  of  being  believed,  and  even 
Tom  Craik,  whose  health  usually  supplied  her  with 
reasons  for  doing  anything  she  wanted  to  do,  had  betaken 
himself  to  Newport.  She  seemed  to  have  lost  her  inter 
est  in  his  movements  and  doings  of  late  and  had  begun 
to  express  a  pious  belief  that  only  heaven  itself  could 
interfere  successfully  when  a  man  took  such  rash  liber 
ties  with  his  health.  Mr.  Craik,  indeed,  lived  by  the 
book  of  arithmetic  as  Tybalt  fought,  his  food  was 


214  THE    THKKK    FATES. 

weighed,  liis  hours  of  sleep  and  half-hours  of  repose 
were  counted  and  regulated  by  untiring  attendants,  the 
thickness  of  his  clothing  at  each  season  was  prescribed 
by  a  great  authority  and  his  goings  out  and  coinings  in 
were  registered  for  the  latter's  inspection,  carriage- 
makers  invented  vehicles  for  his  use.  upholsterers  devised 
systems  of  springs  and  cushions  for  his  rest  and  when  he 
travelled  he  performed  his  journeys  in  his  own  car.  It 
was  hard  to  see  where  Totty  could  have  been  of  use  to 
him,  since  he  did  not  care  lor  her  conversation  and 
could  buy  better  advice  than  she  could  give. 

If  George  had  even  suspected  that  Totty  was  respon 
sible  for  the  report  spread  concerning  him  and  Constance, 
he  would  have  renounced  his  cousin's  acquaintance  and 
would  never  have  entered  her  house  again,  not  even  lor 
the  sake  of  his  old  friendship  with  Sherry  Trimm.  But 
Totty's  skill  and  tact  had  not  been  at  fault.  I  u  her  own 
opinion  she  had  made  one  failure  in  her  life  and  one 
mistake.  She  had  failed  to  induce  her  brother  to  change 
his  will  a  second  time,  and  she  had  committed  a  very 
grave  error  in  opening  the  will  itself  in  the  strong  room 
instead  of  bringing  it  home  with  her  and  lifting  the  seal 
with  a  hot  knife,  so  as  to  be  able  to  restore  it  with  all 
its  original  appearance  of  security.  The  question  of  tin- 
will  still  disturbed  her,  but  she  was  not  a  cowardly 
woman,  and.  in  particular,  she  was  not  afraid  of  her 
husband.  If  worst  came  to  worst,  she  would  throw  her 
self  upon  his  mercy,  confess  her  curiosity,  give  him  back 
the  document,  clear  her  conscience  and  let  him  scold  M 
he  pleased.  He  would  never  tell  any  one.  and  Totty 
was  not  afraid  of  making  great  personal  .sacrifices  when 
she  could  escape  from  a  situat  ion  in  no  other  way.  At 
the  pivM-nt  time  the  main  thing  of  importance  was  to 
pleasi  <  ieorge,  and  to  induce  him  to  make  her  house  his 
own  as  much  as  possible.  It  Sherringtoii.  knowing 
George's  financial  situation,  came  back  and  found  him 
engaged  to  marry  Mamie,  it  would  not  be  human  in  him 
to  bear  malice  against  his  wife  for  the  part  she  had 


THE   THREE   FATES.  215 

played.  Remorse  she  had  none.  She  only  regretted 
that  she  should  have  so  far  forgotten  her  caution  as  to 
do  clumsily  what  she  had  done.  She  would  neither  fail 
nor  make  mistakes  again. 

She  knew  what  she  meant  to  do,  and  she  knew  how  to 
do  it.  A  man  in  George's  situation  is  not  easily  affected 
by  words  no  matter  how  skilfully  put  together  nor  how 
kindly  uttered.  He  either  does  not  hear  them  at  all,  or 
pays  no  attention  to  them,  or  puts  no  faith  in  them.  It 
is  more  easy  to  soothe  his  humour  by  giving  him  agree 
able  surroundings  than  by  talking  to  him.  He  has  no 
appetite,  but  he  may  be  tempted  by  new  and  exquisite 
dishes.  He  wants  stimulants,  and  an  especial  brand  of 
very  dry  champagne  flatters  his  palate,  exhilarates  his 
nervous  system  and  produces  no  evil  consequences.  He 
smokes  more  than  is  good  for  him,  and  in  that  case  it  is 
better  that  he  should  smoke  the  most  delicate  cigars 
imported  directly  from  Havana,  than  that  he  should 
saturate  his  brain  with  nicotine  from  a  vulgar  pipe  — 
Totty  thought  all  pipes  vulgar.  The  love-lorn  wretch  is 
uneasy,  but  he  is  less  restless  when  he  is  left  to  himself 
for  half  an  hour  after  dinner,  in  an  absolutely  perfect 
easy-chair,  with  an  absolutely  perfect  light,  and  with  all 
the  newest  and  greatest  reviews  of  the  world  at  his 
elbow.  He  loathes  the  thought  of  conversational  effort, 
but  he  can  listen  with  a  lazy  satisfaction  to  the  social 
chatter  of  a  clever  mother  and  her  beautiful  daughter, 
or  his  sensitive  ears  may  even  bear  the  reading  aloud  of 
the  last  really  good  novel.  It  is  distressing  to  learn  the 
next  day  that  he  does  not  remember  the  name  of  the 
hero  nor  the  colour  of  the  heroine's  hair,  and  that  he 
does  not  care  to  hear  any  more  of  the  book.  But  it  is  no 
matter.  Feminine  invention  is  not  at  an  end.  It  is 
late  in  May  and  there  is  a  full  moon.  Would  he  enjoy 
a  drive  in  the  Park?  He  may  smoke  in  the  open  car 
riage,  if  he  pleases,  for  both  the  ladies  like  it.  Or  it 
will  be  Sunday  to-morrow,  and  he  never  works  on  Sun 
day.  Would  it  be  very  wrong  to  run  out  for  the  day  on 


'216*  •mi.  THI;I:I:  FATKS. 

board  nf  Mr.  Craik's  yacht,  instead  of  going  to  church? 
Totty  has  the  us«-  of  the  yaelit  whenever  she  likes,  and 
slie  can  take  her  praytM-1 k  on  ln»anl  and  read  the  ser 
vice  with  Mamie  while  ( ieorge  lies  on  deck  and  meditates. 
It  is  a  steam-yacht,  and  it  is  n<>  matter  whether  the 
weather  is  calm  <>r  not.  It'  he  likes  they  can  go  up  the 
river  with  her  instead.  ( >r  would  he  not  care  to  have  a 
horse  waiting  for  him  at  seven  in  the  morning  at  the  cor 
ner  of  the  Park?  There  are  all  tho>e  hor>es  eating  their 
heads  off.  It  would  he  too  early  tor  Mamie  to  ride  with 
him,  unless  he  positively  insists  upon  it.  but  it  could 
not  interfere  with  his  day's  work.  He  has  forgotten  to 
write  a  letter?  I'oor  fellow,  when  he  has  been  working 
all  day  long.  It  is  a  very  important  letter,  and  must  be 
posted  to-night.  There  is  the  luxurious  writing-table 
with  its  perfect  appliances,  its  shaded  candles,  the  beau 
tiful  "Charta  Perfecta,"  the  smoothly-Mowing  ink  that  is 
changed  every  morning,  the  very  pens  he  always  uses, 
the  spotless  blotting-paper,  wax  and  >eals,  if  he  needs 
them,  and  postage -stamps  ready  and  separated  from  each 
other  in  the  silver  box  —  there  is  even  a  tiny  sponge  set 
in  a  little  stand  on  which  to  moisten  them,  lest  tin- 
coarse  taste  of  the  (lovernment  gum  should  ott'end  the 
flavour  of  the  Turkish  coffee  he  has  been  drinking.  He 
has  an  idea?  He  would  like  to  make  notes?  There  is 
the  library  beyond  that  door.  It  is  lighted.  He  has 
only  to  shut  himself  in  as  long  as  he  pleases.  There  is 
a  box  of  those  cigars  on  the  table.  He  has  forgotten  his 
handkerchief.'  A  touch  of  the  hell,  an  order,  and  here 
are  two  of  dear  Sherringt on's.  silk  or  linen,  whichever 
he  prefer-*.  The  evening  is  hot?  The  windows  are  open 
and  there  i^  a  mint-julep  with  a  straw  in  it  by  his  side. 
<>r  is  it  a  little  chilly?  Kverything  is  elo.xrd.  the  lamps 
;ue  all  lighted,  and  the  subtle  perfume  of  Imperial  t.-a 
tlo.its  on  the  xolteiird  air.  All  is  noiseless,  perfect, 
xoothing.  beyond  description,  and  yet  so  natural  that  he 
cannot  teel  as  though  it  gave  the  least  thought  Or  trouble. 
n»r  as  if  it  were  all  skilfully  prepared  for  his  especial 


THE   THREE   FATES,  217 

benefit.  He  wonders  why  Sherry  Trimm  ever  goes  to 
the  club,  when  he  could  spend  his  evenings  in  such  a 
home,  he  closes  his  eyes,  thinks  of  his  unwritten  book 
and  asks  himself  whether  the  wheel  of  fortune  will  ever 
in  its  revolutions  give  him  a  right  of  his  own  to  such 
supreme  refinement  of  comfort. 

It  would  have  been  strange,  indeed,  if  George's  humour 
had  not  been  somewhat  softened  by  so  much  luxury.  He 
had  liked  what  he  could  taste  of  it  in  his  old  days,  when 
Totty  had  hardly  ever  asked  him  to  dinner  and  had  never 
expected  to  see  him  in  the  evening,  in  the  days  when  he 
was  a  poor,  unhappy  nobody,  and  only  a  shabby  relation 
of  Mrs.  Sherringtoii  Trimm' s.  There  had  not  been  much 
done  for  his  comfort  then,  when  he  came  to  the  house, 
but  the  softness  of  the  carpets,  the  elasticity  of  the  easy- 
chairs  and  the  harmony  of  all  details  had  seemed  de 
lightful  to  him,  and  Totty  had  always  been  kind  and 
goodnatured.  But  he  had  seen  many  things  in  the  last 
two  years,  and  was  by  no  means  so  ready  to  be  pleased 
as  he  had  been  when  his  only  evening  coat  had  been  iu 
a  chronic  state  of  repair.  He  had  eaten  terrapin  and 
canvas-back  off  old  Saxon  china,  and  he  had  looked  upon 
the  champagne  when  it  was  of  the  most  expensive 
quality.  He  had  dined  in  grandeur  with  men  whose 
millions  were  legion,  and  he  had  supped  with  epicures 
who  knew  what  they  got  for  their  money.  He  had  seen 
all  sorts  of  society  in  his  native  city,  all  sorts  of  vulgar 
display,  all  sorts  of  unostentatious  but  enormously  ex 
pensive  luxury,  all  sorts  of  gilded  splendour,  and  all 
sorts  of  faultless  refinements  in  taste.  But  now,  after 
he  had  dined  and  spent  the  evening  with  Totty  half  a 
dozen  times  in  the  course  of  a  fortnight,  he  was  ready  to 
admit  that  lie  had  never  been  in  an  establishment  so  per 
fect  at  all  points,  so  quietly  managed,  so  absolutely 
comfortable  and  so  unpretentiously  sybaritic  in  all  its 
details.  Totty  and  her  husband  were  undoubtedly  rich, 
but  they  were  no  richer  than  hundreds  of  people  he 
knew.  It  was  not  money  alone  that  produced  the  results 


218  THK  THREE  FATES. 

h«i  saw.  and  the  certainty  that  tin-  household  was  man 
aged  upon  a  sort  of  artistic  principle  of  enjoyment  gave 
him  intense  satisfaction.  There  was  tin-  same  difference 
between  Totty's  way  of  living  and  that  of  most  of  her 
friends,  that  there  is  between  a  piece  of  work  done  by 
hand  and  the  stereotyped  copy  of  it  made  by  machinerv. 
the  same  difference  there  is  between  an  illuminated 
manuscript  and  its  lithographed  fac-simile.  The  on.-  is 
full  of  the  individuality  of  the  great  artist,  the  other 
presents  the  perfection  of  execution  without  inspiration. 
The  one  charms,  the  other  only  jd»-a>ex. 

George  appreciated  most  thoroughly  at  the  end  of  tin- 
first  week  everything  he  ate.  drank,  felt  and  saw  at  his 
cousin's  house,  and  what  he  heard  was  by  no  means  ;)^ 
wearisome  to  his  intellignce  as  he  had  supposed  that  it 
must  l>e.  Totty  was  far  too  clever  a  woman  to  flatter 
him  openly,  for  she  was  keen  enough  to  perceive  that  he 
was  one  of  those  men  who  feel  a  sort  of  repulsion  for  the 
work  they  have  done  and  who  put  little  faith  in  the  judg 
ment  of  others  concerning  it.  She  soon  found  out  that 
he  did  not  care  to  see  his  books  lying  upon  the  drawing- 
room  table  and  that  he  Mi>perted  her  of  leaving  them 
there  with  the  deliberate  intention  of  flattering  him. 
They  disappeared  into  the  shelves  of  the  library  and  were 
seen  no  more.  But  when  George  was  reading  the  papers 
or  a  review  —  a  form  of  rudeness  in  which  she  constantlv 
encouraged  him.  she  occasionally  took  the  opportunity  of 
introducing  into  her  <piiet  conversation  with  .Mamie  some 
expression  or  some  thought  which  he  had  used  or  devel- 
loped  in  his  writings.  She  avoided  •{notation,  which  she 
had  always  considered  vulgar,  and  exercised  her  ingenuity 
in  letting  his  favourite  ideas  fall  from  her  lips  in  a  per 
fectly  natural  manner.  Though  he  was  not  supposed  to 
he  listening,  he  often  heard  her  remarks,  and  was  uncon 
sciously  pleased.  The  subtlety  of  the  flatterer  collld  gO 

no  further.  Nor  was  that  part  of  tin-  talk  which  con 
cerned  himself  neither  directly  nor  indirectly  by  any 
means  tiresome.  Totty  possessed  very  good  powers  of 


THE   THREE    FATES.  219 

conversation,  and  could  talk  very  much  better  than  most 
women  when  she  pleased.  If  she  pretended  to  abhor  the 
name  of  culture  and  generally  affected  an  air  of  indiffer 
ence  to  everything  that  did  not  affect  her  neighbours  or 
herself,  she  did  so  with  a  wise  premeditation  and  an 
excellent  judgment  of  her  hearers'  capacities.  But  her 
own  husband  was  fond  of  more  intelligent  subjects,  and 
was  a  man  of  varied  experience  and  wride  reading,  who 
liked  to  talk  of  what  he  read  and  saw.  Totty's  memory 
was  excellent,  and  as  she  gave  herself  almost  as  much 
trouble  to  please  Sherrington  as  she  was  now  taking  to 
please  George,  she  had  acquired  the  art  of  amusing  her 
husband  without  any  apparent  exertion.  What  she  said 
was  never  very  profound,  unless  she  had  got  it  by  heart, 
but  the  matter  of  it  was  generally  clear  and  very  fairly 
well  expressed. 

As  for  Mamie,  she  was  perfectly  happy,  for  she  was 
unconsciously  very  much  in  love  with  George,  and  to  see 
him  so  often  and  in  such  intimacy  was  inexpressibly  de 
lightful.  It  was  a  pleasure  even  to  see  him  sitting  silent 
in  his  chair,  it  was  happiness  to  hear  him  speak  and  it 
was  positive  joy  to  wait  upon  him.  She  had  been  more 
disturbed  than  she  had  been  aware  by  his  evident  devo 
tion  to  Constance  Fearing  during  the  winter.  The 
gossip  about  the  broken  engagement  had  given  her  the 
keenest  pain,  due  to  the  fact,  as  she  supposed,  that  Con 
stance  was  totally  unworthy  of  the  man  she  had  jilted. 
But  George's  own  assurance  that  no  engagement  had  ever 
existed  had  driven  the  clouds  from  her  sky,  although  his 
own  subsequent  conduct  might  well  have  aroused  her 
suspicions.  Totty,  however,  took  good  care  to  explain 
to  her  that  the  talk  had  been  entirely  without  foundation 
and  that  George's  silence  and  gloomy  ways  were  the  result 
of  overwork.  She  hoped,  she  said,  to  induce  him  to 
spend  the  summer  with  them  and  to  give  himself  a  long 
rest. 


220  THE   THREE   FATES. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

"Dear  George, "  said  Totty,  one  evening  near  the  one) 
of  May,  "I  hate  the  idea  of  going  away  and  leaving  you 
here  in  the  heat!  " 

"So  do  I,"  answered  George,  thoughtfully,  as  he 
turned  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  his  cousin's  la< ••  •. 

"I  ani  sure  you  will  fall  ill.  There  will  be  nobody  to 
take  care  of  you,  no  place  where  yon  can  drop  in  to  din 
ner  when  you  feel  inclined,  and  where  you  can  do  just 
as  you  like.  And  yet  —  you  sec  how  Mamie  is  looking! 
I  cannot  conscientiously  keep  her  here  any  longer." 

"  Good  heavens,  Totty,  you  must  not  think  of  it!  You 
do  not  mean  to  say  you  have  been  waiting  here  only  on 
my  account?  " 

Totty  Trimni  hesitated,  withdrew  one  tiny  foot,  of 
which  the  point  had  projected  beyond  the  skirt  of  her 
tea-gown,  and  then  put  out  the  other  and  looked  at  it 
curiously.  They  were  both  so  small  and  pointed  that 
George  could  not  have  told  which  was  the  right  and 
which  the  left.  She  hesitated  because  she  had  not  anti 
cipated  the  question.  George  was  not  like  other  mm. 
He  would  not  be  flattered  by  merely  being  informed 
that  the  whole  Sherrington  Trimm  establishment  had 
l>een  kept  Up  a  month  beyond  the  nsnal  time,  on  a  war 
footing,  as  it  were,  for  his  sole  and  express  benefit.  .Most 
men  would  be  pleased  at  being  considered  of  enough  im 
portance  to  be  told  such  a  thing,  though  they  might  not 
believe  the  statement  altogether.  It  was  neoeiMiy  that 
George  should  know  that  Totty  was  speaking  the  truth, 
if  she  answered  his  ipiest  ion  directly.  She  hesitated  and 
looked  at  the  point  of  her  little  slipper. 

"What  does  it  matter'.'"  she  asked,  suddenly,  looking 
ii)»  and  smiling.it  him  anVct  ionately . 

It  was  very  well  done.  The  strongest  asseverations 
conld  not  have  expressed  more  clearly  her  readim 


THE    THREE    FATES.  221 

sacrifice  everything  she  could  to  his  comfort.  George 
was  touched. 

"You  have  been  very  good  to  me,  Totty.  I  cannot 
thank  you  enough."  He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it 
warmly. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  having  friends  unless  they  will 
stand  by  you?  "  she  asked,  returning  the  pressure,  while 
her  face  grew  grave  and  sad. 

Since  she  had  written  her  first  note  after  his  disap 
pointment,  she  had  never  referred  to  his  troubles.  He 
had  answered  her  on  that  occasion  as  he  answered  every 
one,  by  saying  that  there  had  never  been  any  engagement, 
and  he  had  marvelled  at  her  exceeding  tact  in  avoiding 
the  subject  ever  since.  Her  reference  to  it  now,  how 
ever,  seemed  natural,  and  did  not  hurt  him. 

"You  have  been  more  than  a  friend  to  me,"  he  an 
swered.  "I  feel  as  though  you  were  my  sister  —  only,  if 
you  were,  I  suppose  I  should  be  less  grateful." 

"No,  you  would  not,"  said  Totty  with  a  smile  of  gen 
uine  pleasure  produced  of  course  by  the  success  of  her 
operations.  "Do  you  want  to  do  something  to  please 
me?  Something  to  show  your  gratitude?" 

"  Whatever  I  can  — 

"  Come  and  spend  the  summer  with  us  —  no,  I  do  not 
mean  you  to  make  a  visit  of  a  month  or  six  weeks.  Pack 
up  all  your  belongings,  come  down  with  us  and  be  one  of 
the  family,  till  we  are  ready  to  come  back  to  town.  Make 
your  headquarters  witli  us,  write  your  book,  go  away  and 
make  visits  for  a  week  when  you  like,  but  consider  that 
our  house  is  your  home.  Will  you?  " 

"  I  hit,  Totty,  you  would  be  sick  of  the  sight  of  me '' 

Visions  of  an  enchanted  existence  by  the  river  rose  before 
George's  eyes.  He  was  to  some  extent  intellectually 
demoralised,  and  every  agreeable  prospect  in  the  future 
resolved  itself  into  the  thought  of  mental  rest  superin 
duced  by  boundless  luxury  and  material  comfort. 

"What  an  idea!  "  exclaimed  Totty  indignantly.  "Be 
sides,  if  you  knew  how  interested  I  am  in  making  the 


222  THK   THREE    FATES. 

proposal,  you  would  see  that  you  would  bo  conferring  a 
favour  instead  of  accepting  one." 

Sin-  laughed  softly  when  she  had  finished  the  sentence, 
thinking  how  very  true  her  words  were. 

"  I  cannot  understand  how,"  George  answered.  ••  Please 
explain.  I  really  cannot  see  how  I  shall  be  confcrrim: 
a  favour  by  eating  your  wonderful  dinners  and  drinking 
that  champagne  of  Sherry's." 

Totty  laughed  again. 

"I  wish  you  would  finish  it!  It  would  be  ever  so  murh 
better  for  his  liver,  if  you  would." 

She  wondered  what  George  would  think  if  lie  knew 
that  a  fresh  supply  of  that  particular  brand  of  brut  was 
already  on  its  way  from  France,  ordered  in  the  hope  that 
he  might  accept  the  invitation  she  was  now  pre»inur 
upon  him. 

"And  as  for  the  cook,"  she  continued,  "he  will  do 
nothing  unless  there  is  a  man  in  the  party.  That  is  it, 
George.  I  have  told  you  now.  Dear  Sherry  is  not  coin 
ing  back  until  the  autumn,  and  .Mamie  and  I  feel  dread 
fully  unprotected  down  there  all  by  ourselves.  l'lea>e, 
please  come  and  take  care  of  us.  1  knew  you  would 
come  —  oh,  I  am  so  glad!  It  is  such  a  relief  to  feel 
that  you  will  be  with  us!  " 

As  indeed  it  was,  since  if  (leor^e  was  under  Tott\'> 
personal  supervision  there  would  be  n<>  chance  nf  his  re 
turning  to  his  former  allegiance  to  Constance,  (ieorge 
himself  saw  that  her  reasons  were  not  serious,  and  con 
sidering  the  previous  conversation  and  its  earm-M  tun.'. 
he  thought  that  he  saw  through  Totty 's  playfulness  and 
kindly  \vUh  to  do  a  very  friendly  action. 

"I'will    tell    you    what     I.    will'  do,"    he    said.      "I 
conn-  tor  a  month " 


''No — I  will  not   have  you    lor  a    mouth,   nor    to 
months  —  the  whole  summer  or  nothing." 

Bo  GfaoZge  at  la^t  consented,  and  left  town  two  or  three 
days  later  with  Mrs.  Sherrin-ton  Trimm  and  her  daugh 
ter.  He  had  felt  that  in  some  way  he  was  noting  \veaklv. 


THE   THKEE   FATES.  228 

and  that  he  had  yielded  too  easily  to  his  cousin's  invita 
tion,  but  if  he  had  been  in  any  doubt  about  her  sincere 
desire  to  keep  him  during  the  whole  season,  his  anxiety 
was  removed  when  as  soon  as  he  was  established  in  his 
new  quarters  Totty  immediately  began  to  talk  of  plans 
for  the  months  before  them,  in  all  .of  which  George 
played  a  principal  part,  and  Mamie  took  it  for  granted 
that  there  was  to  be  no  separation  until  they  should  all 
go  back  to  Xew  York  together.  During  the  first  few 
days  George  allowed  himself  to  be  utterly  idle  and  let 
the  hours  pass  with  an  indifference  to  all  thought  which 
he  had  never  known  before. 

He  had  been  transported  into  a  sort  of  fairyland,  of 
which  he  had  enjoyed  occasional  glimpses  at  other  times, 
but  which  he  had  never  had  an  opportunity  of  knowing 
intimately.  It  was  unlike  anything  in  his  experience. 
Even  the  journey  had  not  reminded  him  of  other  jour 
neys,  for  it  had  been  performed  in  that  luxurious  privacy 
which  is  dear  to  the  refined  American.  Mr.  Craik's  yacht 
was  permanently  at  his  sister's  disposal,  and  on  the  morn 
ing  appointed  for  the  departure  she  and  Mamie  and 
George  had  driven  down  to  the  pier  at  their  leisure  and 
had  gone  on  board.  It  had  been  but  a  step  from  the  per 
fectly  appointed  house  in  the  city  to  the  equally  perfect 
dwelling  on  the  water,  and  only  one  step  more  from  the 
snowy  deck  of  the  yacht  to  the  flower  garden  before  the 
country  mansion  on  the  banks  of  the  great  river.  Every 
thing  had  been  ready  for  them,  on  board  and  on  shore, 
and  George  could  not  realise  when  the  journey  was  over 
that  he  had  been  carried  over  a  distance  which  he  for 
merly  only  traversed  in  the  heat  and  dust  of  a  noisy 
train,  or  on  the  crowded  deck  of  a  river  steamboat.  He 
had  passed  the  hot  hours  sitting  under  the  cool  shade  of 
a  double  awning,  in  the  most  comfortable  of  chairs 
beside  Mamie  Trimm  and  opposite  to  her  mother.  There 
had  been  no  noise,  no  tramping  of  sailors,  no  blowing  of 
whistles,  no  shouting  of  orders.  From  time  to  time, 
indeed,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  captain's  feet  as  he 


'I' UK    THi:  KM     I  A  1  KS. 

p*oed  the  bridge,  but  that  was  all.  At  mid-day  a  servant 
had  appeared  and  Totty  had  glanced  at  him,  glanced  at 
the  table  beside  her  and  nodded.  Immediately  luncheon 
had  been  served  and  George  had  recognised  the  touch 
of  the  master  in  the  t\v<>  or  three  delicacies  lie  hud  tasted, 
and  had  found  in  his  glass  wine  of  the  famous  bran. I 
which  was  said  to  have  eaused  Sherry  Trimm's  sutler- 
ings.  He  had  divided  with  Mamie  a  priceless  peach. 
which  had  no  natural  right  to  be  ripe  on  the  last  day  of 
May,  and  Totty  had  selected  for  him  a  little  bunch  of 
muscat  grapes  such  as  he  might  not  have  eaten  in  the 
south  before  September.  George  tasted  the  ambrosia 
and  swallowed  the  nectar,  and  enjoyed  the  beautiful 
scenery,  the  two  pretty  faces  and  the  pleasant  voices  in 
his  ear,  thinking,  perhaps,  of  the  old  times  when  after 
a  desperate  morning's  work  at  reviewing  trash,  he  had 
sat  down  to  a  luncheon  of  cold  meat,  pickles  and  tea. 
The  thought  of  the  contrast  made  the  present  more  de 
lightful. 

The  spell  was  not  broken,  and  Totty 's  country-house 
prolonged  without  interruption  the  series  of  exquisite 
sensations  which  had  been  intermittent  during  the  last 
month  in  Xew  York.  If  Totty  had  intended  to  play  the 
part  of  the  tempter  instead  of  being  the  chief  comforter. 
she  could  not  have  done  it  with  a  more  diabolical  skill. 
She  l>elieved  that  a  man  could  always  he  more  easilv 
attacked  by  the  senses  than  by  his  intelligence,  and  she 
put  every  principle  of  her  belief  into  her  acts.  She 
partly  knew,  and  partly  guessed,  the  manner  of  George's 
former  lite,  the  absence  of  luxury,  the  monotony  of  an 
existence  in  which  common  necessities  were  always  pro 
vided  for  in  the  same  way.  without  stint  but  without 
\ariety.  Her  art  consisted  in  creating  contrasts  of  un 
like  perfections,  so  that  the  senses,  unable  to  decide 
U-tween  the  amount  of  pleasure  experienced  \es1erday, 
enjoyed  to-day  and  anticipated  to-morrow,  should  be  kept 
in  u  constant  Mate  of  suspended  judgment.  She  had 
practiced  this  s\stem  with  her  husband  and  it  had  often 


THE   THREE   FAT  US.  226 

succeeded  in  persuading  him  to  let  her  have  her  own  way, 
and  she  practised  it  continually  for  her  own  personal 
satisfaction,  as  being  the  only  means  of  extracting  all 
possible  enjoyment  from  her  existence. 

George  fell  under  the  charm  without  even  making  an 
effort  to  resist  it.  "Why,  he  asked  himself  dreamily, 
should  he  resist  anything  that  was  good  in  itself  and 
harmless  in  its  consequences?  His  life  had  all  at  once 
fallen  in  pleasant  places.  Should  he  disappoint  Totty 
and  give  Mamie  pain  by  a  sudden  determination  to 
break  up  all  their  plans  and  return  to  the  heat  of  the 
city?  He  could  work  here  as  well  as  anywhere  else, 
better  if  there  was  any  truth  in  the  theory  that  the  mind 
should  be  more  active  when  the  body  is  subject  to  no 
pain  or  inconvenience.  A  deal  of  asceticism  had  been 
forced  upon  him  since  he  had  been  seventeen  years  old, 
and  he  believed  that  a  surfeit  of  luxuries  would  do  him 
no  harm  now.  He  would  get  tired  of  it  all,  no  doubt, 
and  would  be  very  glad  to  go  back  to  his  more  simple 
existence. 

Totty,  however,  was  far  too  accomplished  an  Epicurean 
to  allow  her  patient  a  surfeit  of  anything.  She  watched 
him  more  narrowly  tlran  lie  supposed  and  was  ready 
with  a  change,  not  when  she  saw  signs  of  fatigue  in  his 
manner,  his  face  or  his  appetite,  but  before  that,  as  soon 
as  she  had  seen  that  he  was  pleased.  She  was  playing  a 
great  game  and  her  attention  never  relaxed.  There  was 
a  fortune  at  stake  of  which  he  himself  did  not  dream, 
and  of  which  even  she  did  not  know  the  extent.  She 
had  everything  in  her  favour.  The  coast  was  clear,  for 
Sherrington  was  in  Europe.  The  final  scene  was  pre 
pared,  since  Mamie  was  already  in  love  with  George. 
She  herself  was  a  past  master  of  scene-shifting  and  her 
theatre  was  well  provided  with  properties  of  every 
description.  All  that  was  necessary  was  that  the  hero 
should  take  a,  fancy  to  the  heroine.  But  the  very  fact 
that  it  all  looked  so  easy  aroused  Totty ?s  anxiety.  She 
said  to  herself  that  what  appeared  to  be  most  simple  was 

Q 


THK   Till: I.!.    1  AXES. 

often,  in  real  it  v.  most   dith'eult,  and  she  warned  herself 
to  be  can-fill  and  ditlidcnt  of  Miccess. 

Fortunately  Mamie  was  all  she  could  desire  her  t<>  be. 
She  (lid  not  believe  in  beauty  a>  a  mean*  of  attracting  a 
disappointed  man.  Beauty  could  only  draw  his  mind 
into  making  comparisons,  and  comparisons  must  revive 
recollection  and  reawaken  regret.  She  had  more  faith 
in  Mamie's  subtle  charm  of  manner,  voice  and  motion 
than  she  would  have  had  in  all  the  faultles>  pel  lections 
of  classic  features,  queenly  stature  and  royal  carriage. 
That  charm  of  hers,  gave  her  an  individuality  of  her 
own,  such  as  Constance  Fearing  had  never  possessed,  un 
like  anything  that  (Jeorge  had  ever  noticed  in  other  girls 
or  women.  Doubtless  he  might  have  too  much  of  that, 
too,  as  well  as  of  other  things,  but  Totty  was  even  more 
cautious  of  the  effects  she  produced  with  Mamie  than  of 
those  she  brought  about  by  her  minute  attention  to  the 
management  of  her  house.  And  here  her  greatest  skill 
appeared,  for  she  had  to  play  a  game  of  three-sided 
duplicity.  She  had  to  please  (Jeorge.  \\ithout  wearying 
him,  to  regulate  the  intercourse  between  the  two  so  as  to 
suit  her  own  ends,  and  to  invent  reasons  for  making 
Mamie  behave  as  she  desired  that  she  should  without 
communicating  to  the  girl  a  word  of  her  intentions.  It 
George  appeared  to  have  been  enjoying  especially  a  «|iiiet 
conversation  with  Mamie,  he  must  be  prevented  from 
talking  to  her  again  alone  for  at  least  twenty-tour  hom>. 
and  even  then  he  must  be  allowed  to  please  himself  in 
the  matter.  This  was  not  ea>\,  for  Mamie  was  by  this 
time  blindly  in  love  with  him.  and  if  she  were  not 
wat died  would  be  foolish  enough  to  bore  him  by  her 
fre.jnent  presence  at  his  side.  To  keep  her  away  fnuii 
him  long  enough  to  make  him  want  her  company  needed 
much  diplomacy.  I  f  <  Jeorge  went  out  tor  a  turn  in  the 
garden,  and  it  Mamie  joined  him  without  an  invitation, 
Tott\  could  not  pur>ue  the  pair  in  order  to  protect  (Jeorge 
hom  being  bored.  1 1  it herto  also.  Mamie  had  made  no 
to  her  mother  and  did  not  seem  inclined  to 


THE   THREE    FATES.  227 

make  any.  Manifestly,  if  an  accident  could  happen  by 
which  Mamie  could  be  brought  to  betray  herself  to  her 
careful  parent,  great  advantages  would  ensue.  The 
careful  parent  would  then  appear  as  the  firm  and  skilful 
ally  of  the  love-lorn  daughter,  the  two  would  act  in  con 
cert  and  great  results  might  be  effected.  Totty  was  not 
only  really  fond  of  George,  in  her  own  way,  but  it  would 
not  have  suited  her  that  a  hair  of  his  head  should  be 
injured.  Nevertheless,  she  nourished  all  sorts  of  mali 
cious  hopes  against  him  at  this  stage.  She  wished  that 
he  might  be  thrown  from  his  horse  and  brought  home 
unhurt  but  insensible,  or  that  he  might  upset  his  boat 
on  the  river  under  Mamie's  eyes  —  in  short  that  some 
thing  might  happen  to  him  which  should  give  Mamie  a 
shock  and  throw  her  into  her  mother's  arms. 

Providence,  however,  did  not  come  to  Totty's  assist 
ance  and  she  was  thrown  upon  her  own  resources,  aided 
in  some  small  degree  by  an  extraneous  circumstance. 
The  marriage  of  John  Bond  and  Grace  Fearing  had  been 
talked  of  for  a  long  time,  and  Totty  one  morning  learned 
that  it  was  to  take  place  immediately.  She  could  not 
guess  why  they  had  chosen  to  be  married  in  the  very 
middle  of  the  summer,  when  all  their  friends  were  out 
of  town,  and  she  had  no  inclination  to  go  to  the  wedding, 
whicli  was  to  be  conducted  without  any  great  gathering 
or  display  of  festivity.  John  Bond,  as  being  Sherring- 
ton  Trimm's  partner  and  an  old  friend  of  Totty's,  urged 
her  of  course  to  come  down  to  town  for  the  occasion  and 
to  bring  Mamie,  but  the  heat  was  intense,  and  as  there 
would  be  nothing  to  see  and  110  one  present  with  whom 
she  would  care  to  talk,  and  nothing  good  to  eat,  and,  on 
the  whole,  nothing  whatever  to  do  except  to  grin  and 
look  pleased,  Totty  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  affair,  beyond  sending  Grace 
an  expensive  present.  There  were  no  regular  invitations 
sent  out,  and  George  received  no  notice  of  what  was 
happening.  Totty,  however,  did  not  lose  the  opportu 
nity  of  talking  to  Mamie  about  it  all,  with  a  view  to 


•J-J8  i  UK    mi:  i.i.    i   \ This. 

sounding  her  views  upon  matrimony  in  general  and 
upon  her  own  futuiv  in  particular. 

".Johnnie  I.ond  is  such  a  tin*-  fellow!"  said  Totty  to 
her  daughter,  when  they  had  U-en  talking  for  some  time. 

Mamie  admitted  tliat  lie  \vas  a  very  tint-  fellow,  indeed. 

''Tell  me,  Mamie,"  said  her  mother,  assuming  a  tone 
at  once  cheerful  and  confidential,  "is  not  Johnnie  Bond 
very  nearly  your  ideal  of  what  a  husband  ought  to  be'.'" 

"Not  in  the  least!  "  answered  tin-  young  girl  prompt ly. 
Totty  looked  very  much  surprised. 

"  N'o?  Why.  Mamie.  I  thought  you  always  liked  him 
so  much !  " 

"  So  I  do,  in  a  way.  But  he  is  not  at  all  in  my  style, 
mamma." 

"What  is  your  style,  as  you  call  it?"  Totty  seemed 
intensely  interested  as  she  paused  for  an  an>wer.  Mamie 
blushed,  and  looked  down  at  a  piece  of  work  she  was 
.holding. 

''Well — to  begin  with,"  she  said,  speaking  quickly. 
''Mr.  Bond  is  three-quarters  lawyer  and  one-quarter 
idiot.  At  least  I  believe  so.  And  all  the  rest  of  him 
is  boating  and  tennis  and  —  everything  one  does,  you 
know  —  sport  and  all  that.  I  never  heard  him  make  an 
intelligent  remark  in  his  life,  though  papa  says  he  is  as 
clever  as  they  make  them,  for  a  lawyer  of  course.  You 
know  what  I  mean,  mamma.  He  is  one  of  those  dread 
fully  earnest  young  men.  who  do  everything  with  a  pur- 
.  as  if  it  meant  money,  and  they  meant  to  get  it. 
Oh,  I  could  not  hear  to  marry  one  of  them!  They  are 
all  exactly  alike — -so  many  >team  engines  turned  out  l»y 
the  same  maker!  " 

"Dear  me.  Mamie!"  laughed  Mrs.  Trimm.  "What 
very  decided  opinions  yon  have!  " 

"I  mppoee  Gtraoe  Tearing  has  decided  opinions,  too. 
in  the  opposite  direction,  or  she  would  not  have  married 
him.  I  n.-v.-i  can  understand  her.  either,  with  thos,* 
great  dark  0y6fl  ami  that  determined  expression — >h»- 
looks  like  a  girl  out  of  a  novel,  and  I  believe  there  is  no 


THE   THKEE   FATES.  229 

more  romance  about  her  than  there  is  in  a  hat-stand! 
There  cannot  be,  if  she  likes  Master  Johnnie  Bond  —  and 
there  is  no  reason  why  she  should  marry  him  unless  she 
does  like  him,  is  there?" 

"  None  that  I  can  see,  but  that  is  a  very  good  one  — 
good  enough  for  any  one,  I  should  think.  You  would 
not  care  for  Johnnie  Bond,  but  you  may  care  for  some 
one  else.  You  have  not  told  me-  what  your  ideal  would 
be  like." 

"  Where,  is  the  use  ?  You  ought  to  know,  mamma, 
without  being  told." 

"Of  course  I  ought,  child  —  only  I  am  so  stupid. 
Would  he  be  dark  or  fair?  " 

"Dark,"  answered  the  young  girl,  bending  over  her 
work. 

"And  clever,  I  suppose?  Of  course.  And  slender, 
and  romantic  to  look  at?" 

"Oh,  don't,  mamma!     Talk  about  something  else." 

"Why?  I  am  not  sure  that  we  might  not  agree  about 
the  ideal." 

"  No ! ''  exclaimed  Mamie  with  a  little  half  scornful 
laugh.  "We  should  never  agree  about  him,  because  I 
would  like  him  poor." 

"You  can  afford  to  marry  a  poor  man,  if  you  please," 
said  Totty,  thoughtfully.  "  But  would  you  not  be  afraid 
that  he  loved  your  money  better  than  yourself?  " 

"  No  indeed !  I  should  love  him,  and  then  —  I  should 
believe  in  him,  of  course." 

"  Then  I  do  not  see  why  you  should  not  marry  your 
ideal  after  all,  my  dear.  Come,  darling  —  we  both  know 
whom  we  are  talking  about.  Why  not  say  it  to  each 
other?  I  would  help  you  then.  I  am  almost  as  fond  of 
him  as  you  are." 

Mamie  blushed  quickly  and  then  turned  pale.  She 
looked  suspiciously  at  her  mother. 

"  You  are  not  in  earnest,  mamma, "  she  said,  after  a 
short  pause. 

"Indeed  I  am,  child,"  answered  Mrs.  Trimm,  meeting 


'2'6(J  i  m.    riihKi-:  FATES. 


her  gaze  fearlessh.  "l>o  you  think  that  1  have  not 
known  it  for  a  long  time?  And  do  you  think  I  would 
have  brought  him  here  if  1  had  not  been  perfectly  will 
ing  that  you  should  marry  him?  " 

The  young  girl  suddenly  sprang  up  and  threw  her 
arms  round  her  mother's  neck. 

"Oh  mamma,  mamma!  This  is  too  good!  Too  good! 
Too  good!" 

"Dear  child!  "  exclaimed  Totty,  kissing  her  affection 
ately.  "Is  not  your  happiness  always  the  tirst  thing  in 
my  mind?  Would  I  not  sacrifice  every  tiling  tor  that?" 

"Yes  —  you  are  so  sweet  and  dear.  1  know  you 
would,"  said  Mamie,  sitting  down  beside  her  and  rotin^ 
her  head  upon  her  mother's  plump  little  shoulder.  "  But 
you  see  —  I  thought  that  nobody  knew,  because  we  have 
always  been  together  so  much.  And  then  I  thought  you 
would  think  what  you  just  said,  about  the  money,  you 
know.  But  it  is  not  true  —  I  mean  it  Avould  not  be  true. 
He  would  never  care  for  that." 

"No,"  answered  Totty,  almost  forgetting  herself.  "  I 
should  think  not!  I  mean  —  with  his  character  —  he  is 
so  honourable  and  fair  —  like  your  papa  in  that.  But 
Mamie,  darling,  do  you  think  he  -  ?" 

Totty  stopped,  conveying  the  rest  of  her  question  \>\ 
means  of  an  inquiringly  sympathetic  smile.  Mamie 
shook  her  head  a  little  sadly,  and  looked  down. 

"I  am  afraid  he  never  will,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"And  yet  he  should,  for  I  —  oh  mother!  I  love  him  10 
—  you  will  never  know!  " 

She  buried  her  face  and  her  Mushes  in  her  hands  upon 
her  mother's  shoulder.  Totty  patted  her  head  atl'ert  inn 
ately  and  kis>ed  her  curls  several  times  in  a  \«-r\ 
motherly  way.  Her  <,\\  n  tare  was  >uH'ii>ed  wit  h  .smiles 
tor  >he  felt  that  she  had  done  a  very  i^md  day's  work. 
and  was  surprised  to  think  that  it  had  been  accomplished 
soeasih.  The  tact  was  that  Mamie  was  only  too  ready 
to  >|.eak  ot  what  tilled  her  whole  lite,  and  had  more 
than  unce  been  mi  the  point  ol  telling  her  mother  all  she 


THE   THREE   FATES.  231 

felt.  She  had  supposed,  however,  that  she  knew  the 
ways  of  her  mother's  wisdom,  and  that  George's  poverty 
would  always  be  an  insuperable  obstacle.  She  did  not 
now  in  the  least  understand  why  Totty  made  so  light  of 
the  question  of  money,  and  even  in  her  great  happiness 
at  finding  such  ready  sympathy  she  thought  it  very 
strange  that  she  should  have  so  completely  mistaken  her 
mother's  character. 

From  that  day,  however,  there  was  a  tacit  understand 
ing  between  the  two.  Mamie  was  in  that  singular  and 
not  altogether  dignified  position  in.  which  a  woman  finds 
herself  when  she  loves  a  man  and  has  determined  to  win 
him,  though  she  is  not  loved  in  return.  There  are 
doubtless  many  young  women  in  the  world  who,  whether 
for  love  or  for  interest,  have  wooed  and  won  their  pres 
ent  husbands,  though  the  latter  have  never  found  it  out, 
and  would  not  believe  it  if  it  were  told  to  them.  Mamie 
differed  from  most  of  these,  however,  in  that  she  was  as 
modest  as  she  was  loving,  and  in  her  real  distrust  of  her 
own  advantages,  which  defect,  or  quality,  was  perhaps 
at  the  root  of  her  peculiar  charm.  She  knew  that  she 
was  not  beautiful,  and  she  believed  that  beauty  was  a 
woman's  strongest  weapon.  She  had  yet  to  learn  that 
the  way  to  men's  hearts  is  not  always  through  their 
eyes. 

After  her  confession  to  her  mother  she  began  to  dis 
cover  the  value  of  that  ingenious  lady's  experience  and 
tact.  At  first,  indeed,  she  felt  a  modest  hesitation  in 
coolly  doing  what  she  was  told,  as  a  means  of  winning 
George's  heart,  but  she  soon  found  out  that  her  mother 
was  always  right  and  that  she  herself  was  generally 
wrong. 

"There  is  only  one  way  of  doing  things/'  said  Totty, 
one  day,  "  and  that  is  the  right  way.  There  is  only  one 
thing  that  a  man  really  hates,  and  that  is,  being  bored. 
And  men  are  very  easily  bored,  my  dear.  A  man  likes 
to  have  everything  done  for  him  in  the  most  perfect  way, 
but  it  spoils  his  enjoyment  to  feel  that  it  is  done  espe- 


232  TIIK  TRBSB  FATES. 

cially  for  liiin  and  for  nobody  rise.  If  you  aro  afraid  ho 
will  catch  cold,  do  not  run  alter  him  with  his  hat.  as 
though  lie  were  an  invalid.  That  is  only  an  example, 
Mamie.  Men  have  an  immense  body  of  tradition  to 
sustain,  and  they  do  it  by  keeping  up  appearances  as 
well  as  they  can.  All  men  are  supposed  to  be  brave, 
strong,  honourable,  enduring  and  generous.  They  are 
supposed  never  to  feel  hot  when  we  do,  nor  to  catch 
cold  when  we  should.  It  is  a  part  of  their  stage  char 
acter  never  to  be  afraid  of  anything,  and  many  of  them 
are  far  more  timid  than  we  are.  I  do  not  mean  to  say 
that  dear  (Jeorge  has  not  all  the  qualities  a  man  ought 
to  have.  Certainly  not.  He  is  (ptite  the  finest  fellow  I 
ever  knew.  But  he  does  not  want  you  to  notice  the  fact. 
He  wants  you  to  take  it  for  granted,  just  as  much  as 
little  Tippy  Skiffington  does,  who  is  afraid  of  a  mouse 
and  would  not  touch  a  dog  that  had  no  muzzle  on  for  all 
he  is  worth,  which  is  saying  a  great  deal.  Dear  George 
would  not  like  it  to  be  supposed  that  he  cares  for  terrapin 
and  dry  champagne  any  more  than  for  pork  and  l>eans 
—  and  yet  the  dear  fellow  is  keenly  alive  to  the  differ 
ence.  He  does  not  want  it  to  be  thought  he  could  ever 
be  bored  by  you  or  me,  but  he  knows  that  we  know  that 
he  might  be,  and  he  expects  us  to  use  tact  and  to  leave 
him  alone  sometimes,  even  for  a  whole  day.  He  will  be 
much  more  glad  to  see  us  the  next  time  we  meet  him 
and  will  show  it  by  giving  himself  much  more  trouble 
to  be  agreeable.  It  is  not  true  that  if  you  run  away 
men  will  follow  you.  They  are  far  too  la/.y  for  that. 
Vou  must  come  to  them,  hut  m.t  too  often.  What  they 
most  want  is  amusement,  and  between  their  amusements, 
to  be  allowed  to  do  exactly  what  their  high  and  mighty 
intellects  suggest  to  them,  without  nimment.  Never  ask 
a  man  where  he  lias  been,  what  he  has  seen,  nor  what  he 
has  heard.  If  he  has  anything  to  tell,  he  will  tell  you, 
and  if  he  has  not  you  only  humiliate  him  by  discovering 
the  emptiness  of  his  thoughts.  Always  ask  his  opinion. 
It  he  has  none  himself,  he  knows  somebody  who  has,  no 


THE   THREE   FATES.  233 

matter  what  the  subject  may  be.  The  difference  between 
men  and  women  is  very  simple,  my  dear.  Women  look 
greater  fools  than  they  are,  and  men  are  greater  fools 
than  they  look  —  except  in  the  things  they  know  how  to 
do  and  do  well." 

"George  is  not  a  fool  about  anything!"  said  Mamie 
indignantly.  She  had  been  listening  with  considerable 
interest  to  her  mother's  homily. 

"George,  my  dear,"  answered  Totty,  "is  very  foolish 
not  to  be  in  love  with  you  at  the  present  moment.  Or, 
if  he  is,  he  is  very  foolish  to  hide  it." 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  talk  like  that,  mamma !  I  am 
not  half  good  enough  for  him." 

Nevertheless  Mamie  consulted  her  mother  and  was 
guided  by  her.  George  would  ride  —  should  she  accept 
his  proposal  and  go  with  him  or  not?  A  word,  a  glance 
decided  the  matter  for  her,  and  George  was  none  the 
wiser.  He  could  not  help  thinking,  however,  that  Mamie 
was  becoming  an  extremely  tactful  young  person,  as  well 
as  a  most  agreeable  companion.  One  day  he  could  not 
resist  his  inclination  to  tell  her  so. 

"  How  clever  you  are,  Mamie !  "  he  exclaimed  after  a 
pause  in  the  conversation. 

"  I?  Clever?  "  The  girl's  face  expressed  her  innocent 
astonishment  at  the  compliment. 

"Yes.  You  are  a  most  charming  person  to  live  with. 
How  in  the  world  did  you  know  that  I  wanted  to  be 
alone  yesterday,  and  that  I  wanted  you  to  come  with  me 
to-day?"  George  laughed.  "Do  I  not  always  ask  you 
to  come  with  me  in  precisely  the  same  tone?  Do  I  not 
always  look  as  though  I  wanted  you  to  come?  How  do 
you  always  know?" 

Mamie  was  conscious  that  she  blushed  even  more  than 
she  usually  did  when  she  was  momentarily  embarrassed. 
Indeed,  the  blush  had  two  distinct  causes  on  the  present 
occasion.  She  had  at  first  been  delighted  by  the  compli 
ment  he  had  paid  her,  and  then,  immediately  afterwards, 
when  he  explained  what  he  meant,  she  had  felt  her 


"2".  \  THE   THREK    FATES. 

-hame  burning  iu  her  fan-.  On  tin-  previous  day.  as 
on  tin-  present  afternoon,  she  had  blindly  followed  her 
mother's  advice,  given  by  an  almost  impure. -ptible  motion 
of  the  head  and  eyes  that  had  indicated  a  negation 
on  the  first  occasion  and  assent  on  the  second.  She 
was  silent  now,  and  could  find  no  words  with  which  to 
answer  his  question. 

"How  do  you  do  it?"  he  asked  again,  wondering  at 
her  embarrassment,  and  slackening  the  jure  ;it  which  he 
rowed,  for  they  were  in  a  boat  together  towards  Mtnset 

Mamie's  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  hot  tears  and  she 
hid  her  face  with  her  small  hands. 

"Why,  Mamie  dear,  what  is  it?"  (Jcorge  asked,  rest 
ing  on  his  oars  and  leaning  forward. 

"0  George,"  she  sobbed,  "  if  you  only  knew!  " 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

George  did  not  forget  Mamie's  strange  behaviour  in 
the  boat,  and  he  devoted  much  time  to  the  study  of  the 
problem  it  presented.  To  judge  from  the  girl's  conduct 
alone,  she  must  be  in  love  with  him.  and  yet  he  did  not 

like  the  idea  and  took  the  greatest  pains  to  keep  it  out  of 
his  mind.  He  was  not  in  the  humour  in  which  it  is  a 
pleasant  surprise  to  a  man  to  discover  unexpected  affec 
tion  tor  himself  in  a  quarter  where  he  has  not  expected 
to  find  it.  Moreover,  if  he  had  once  made  sure  that 
Mamie  loved  him.  lie  would  probably  have  thought  it 
his  duty  to  ^o  a\vay  as  quickly  Me.  Such  a 

decision  would  have  deprived  him  of  mueh  that  lie 
enjoyed  and  it  wa>  desirable  in  the  interests  of  his  self 
ishness  that  it  should  be  put  off  as  long  as  possible. 

At  that   tin,.     •  B  b"uran  to  fee]  the  desire  tor  work 

creeping  upon  him  once  more.  1  Miring  a  few  weeks  only 
had  it  been  in  his  power  to  put  away  the  habit  of  writ- 


THE   THREE   FATES.  235 

ing,  and  to  close  his  eyes  to  all  responsibility.  Those 
had  been  days  when  the  whole  world  had  seemed  to  bo 
upside  down,  as  in  a  dream,  while  he  himself  moved  in 
the  midst  of  a  disordered  creation,  uncertainty,  like  a 
soulless  creature,  without  the  capacity  for  independent 
action  nor  the  intelligence  to  form  any  distinct  intention 
from  one  moment  to  another.  He  took  what  he  found 
in  his  way  without  understanding,  though  not  without 
an  odd  appreciation  of  what  was  good,  very  much  as 
Eastern  princes  receive  European  hospitality.  He  was 
grateful  at  least  that  his  life  should  be  made  so  smooth 
for  the  time,  for  he  was  dimly  conscious  that  anything 
outwardly  rough  or  coarse  would  have  exasperated  him  to 
madness.  He  believed  that  he  thought  a  great  deal  about 
the  past,  but  when  he  attempted  to  give  his  meditations 
a  shape,  they  would  accept  none.  In  reality  he  was  not 
thinking,  though  the  mirror  of  his  memory  was  filled 
with  fleeting  reflections  of  his  former  life,  some  clear 
and  startlingly  vivid,  others  distorted  and  broken,  but 
all  more  or  less  beautified  by  the  shadowy  presence  of  a 
being  he  had  loved  better  than  himself,  and  from  whom 
he  was  separated  for  ever. 

With  such  a  man,  however,  idleness  was  as  impossible 
as  the  desire  for  expression  was  irresistible.  Since  he 
had  written  his  first  book,  and  had  discovered  what  it  was 
that  he  was  born  to  do,  he  had  taken  up  a  burden  which 
he  could  not  lay  down  and  had  sworn  allegiance  to  a 
master  from  whom  he  could  not  escape.  Xot  even  the 
bitter  and  overwhelming  disappointment  that  had  come 
upon  him  could  kill  the  desire  to  write.  He  was  almost 
ashamed  of  it  at  first,  for  he  felt  that  though  everything 
he  loved  best  in  the  world  were  dead  before  him,  lie 
should  be  driven  within  a  few  weeks  to  take  up  his  pen 
again  and  open  his  inner  eyes  and  ears  to  the  play  of  his 
mind's  stage. 

The  power  to  do  certain  tilings  is  rarely  separated 
from  the  necessity  for  doing  them,  and  the  fact  that  they 
are  well  done  by  no  means  proves  that  the  doer  has  for- 


23n  THE    THHEE    FATES. 

••  n  the  blow  that  recently  overwhelmed  his  heart  in 
darkness  ami  his  daily  life  in  an  almost  uncontrollable 
grief.  There  are  t\v«.  lives  I'm-  most  mm.  whatever  their 
careers  may  be,  an<l  the  absence  of  either  of  these 
makes  a  man  produce  an  impression  of  ineo 
upon  those  who  know  him.  When  any  one  lives  only 
by  the  existence  of  tin-  In-art,  without  acti\c  occupation. 
without  manifesting  inclination,  taste  or  talent  for  out 
ward  things,  we  say  that  lit-  has  no  interest  in  lift-,  ami 
is  much  to  l>e  pitied.  But  we  say  that  a  man  is  In-art 
less  and  selfish  who  appears  to  (h-votr  every  thought  to 
his  occupation  and  every  moment  to  in«-n-asin^  the 
eham-es  of  his  success.  In  tin-  lives  of  <^n-.\\  mm  \v.> 
Search  with  an  especial  pleasure  for  all  that  can  slm\v  us 
tin*  working  <>f  their  In-arts.  and  we  remember  with 
delight  whatever  we  find  that  indicates  a  >epai-ate  and 
inner  chain  of  events,  of  which  the  links  ha\  e  been  loves 
and  friendships  kept  secret  from  the  world.  The  more 
nearly  the  two  lives  have  coincided,  the  more  happy  we 
judge  the  man  to  have  been,  the  more  out  of  tune  and 
discordant  with  each  other,  the  more  we  feel  that  hi> 
existence  must  have  seemed  a  failure  in  his  own  eyas; 
and  when  we  are  told  only  of  his  doings  before  the  world, 
without  one  touch  of  .softer  feeling,  we  lay  aside  Un 
hook  of  his  biography  and  say  that  it  is  badly  written 
and  that  we  are  surprised  to  find  that  a  man  so  uninter 
esting  in  himself  should  have  exercised  BO  much  influence 
over  hi>  times. 

(ienrge  \Vood  had  neither  forgotten  ( 'oiiMance.  nnr 
had  he  recovered  from  the  wound  he  had  received,  and 
\et  within  a  day  or  two  of  his  resuming  his  work,  lie 
toinid  that  his  love  of  it  was  not  diminished  nor  his 
strength  to  do  it  abated.  It  was  not  happiness  to  write, 
but  it  \va>  satisfaction.  His  hesitation  RTU  ^«»ne  now. 
ami  his  hand  had  recovered  its  cunning.  He  no  longer 
sat  lor  hours  before  a  blank  sheet  of  paper,  staring  at 
the  wall  and  racking  his  brain  in  the  hope  that  a  char 
acter  nt  sonic  .sort  would  suddenh  -tart  into  shape  and 


THE   THREE    FATES.  237 

life  from  the  chaotic  darkness  he  was  facing.  Until  the 
first  difficulties  that  attend  the  beginning  of  a  book  were 
overcome,  he  had  still  a  lingering  and  unacknowledged 
suspicion  that  he  could  do  nothing  good  without  the  daily 
criticism  and  unfailing  applause  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  receive  from  Constance  during  his  former  efforts. 
When  he  was  fairly  launched,  he  felt  proud  of  being 
able  to  do  without  her.  For  the  first  time  he  was  depend 
ing  solely  upon  his  own  judgment,  as  he  had  always 
relied  upon  his  own  ideas,  and  his  judgment  decided 
that  what  he  did  was  good. 

From  that  time  the  arrangement  of  his  day  took  again 
the  definite  shape  in  which  he  had  always  known  it,  and 
the  mere  distribution  of  his  hours  between  work  and  rest 
gave  him  back  confidence  in  himself.  He  began  to  see 
his  surroundings  from  a  more  intelligent  point  of  view, 
and  to  take  a  keener  interest  in  things  and  people. 
Though  he  had  by  no  means  recovered  from  the  first 
great  shock  of  his  life,  and  though  in  his  heart  he  was 
as  bitter  a,s  ever  against  her  who  had  inflicted  it,  yet  his 
mind  was  already  convalescent  and  was  being  rapidly 
restored  to  its  former  vigour.  There  was  power  in  his 
imagination,  strength  in  his  language  and  harmony  in 
his  style.  What  he  thought  took  shape,  and  the  shape 
found  expression. 

He  soon  found  that  under  these  circumstances  life  was 
bearable,  and  often  enjoyable.  Very  gradually,  as  his 
concentrated  attention  became  absorbed  in  his  own  crea 
tions,  the  face  of  Constance  Fearing  appeared  less  often 
in  his  dreams,  and  the  heart-broken  tones  of  her  voice 
rang  less  continually  in  his  ears.  He  was  not  forget 
ting,  but  the  physical  impressions  of  sight  and  sound 
upon  his  senses  were  wearing  off.  Occasionally  indeed 
they  would  return  with  startling  force  and  vividness, 
awakening  in  him  for  one  moment  the  reality  of  all  he 
had  suffered.  At  such  times  he  could  see  again,  as 
though  face  to  face,  her  expression  at  the  instant  when 
she  had  seemed  to  relinquish  the  attempt  to  soften  him, 


238  IMF.    THKEE    FATES. 

and  he  could  hear  again  tin-  plaintive  accents  of  her 
words  and  tin-  painful  cadence  of  her  sobbing  roioe, 
I'.ut  such  visitations  grew  daily  more  rare  and  at  last 
almost  ceased  altogether. 

For  what  he  had  dour  himself  he  felt  n<>  remone, 
His  mind  was  not  made  like  hers,  and  IKI  would  never  lie 
able  to  understand  that  she  had  done  violence  to  hemwn 
heart  in  casting  him  off.  He  would  learn  pn-haps  BOOM 
day  to  describe  what  she  had  done,  to  analyse  her  motive* 
from  his  own  point  of  view,  but  he  would  never  he  able 
to  think  of  her  as  she  thought  of  herself.  In  his  ejGfl 
she  would  always  be  a  little  eontemptible,  even  when 
time's  charitable  mists  should  have  descended  upon  the 
past  and  softened  all  its  outlines.  He  was  rut  off  from 
her  by  one  of  the  most  impassable  barriers  which  can  be 
raised  in  the  human  heart,  by  his  resentment  against 
himself  for  having  been  deceived. 

He  did  not  ask  himself  whether  he  could  ever  love 
again.  There  was  a  strength  in  his  present  position, 
which  almost  pleased  him.  He  had  done  with  love  and 
was  free  to  speak  of  it  as  he  chose,  without  regard  for 
any  one's  feelings,  without  respect  tor  the  passion  itself. 
if  it  suited  his  humour.  There  had  been  nothing  boyish 
in  the  pure  and  passionate  affection  under  which  he  had 
lived  during  two  of  the  most  important  years  in  his 
life.  He  had  felt  all  that  a  man  can  feel  in  the  deep 
devotion  to  one  spotless  object.  There  would  never 
again  be  anything  so  high  and  noble  and  untainted  in 
all  the  years  that  were  to  come  tor  him.  ami  he  knew  it. 
The  determination  lie  had  felt  to  he  necessary  in  the  tir.st 
moment  of  his  anger  had  carried  itself  out  almost  with 
out  an\  direction  from  his  will.  The  <  'on.stance  ]„.  had 
;  BO  dearlj,  was  not  the  Constance  who  had  refused 
to  marry  him,  and  who  had  dealt  him  Mich  a  cruel  l.lo\\. 
The  two  were  .separated  and  he  could  .still  love  the  one, 
while  hat  ing  and  despising  the  other.  |',ut  although  he 
might  inert  the  ^lrl  whose  face  and  form  and  look  and 

\oirr    were    those    of    her    lie    had     lost,     this    Second    Coll- 


THE  THREE  FATES.  23d 

stance  could  never  take  the  other's  place.  A  word  from 
her  could  not  put  tire  into  his  heart,  nor  raise  in  his 
brain  the  vision  of  a  magnificent  inspiration.  A  touch 
from  her  hand  could  send  no  thrill  of  pleasure  through 
his  frame,  there  would  be  no  joy  in  looking  upon  her 
fair  face  when  next  he  saw  it.  She  might  say  to  him  all 
that  he  had  once  said  to  her,  she  might  appeal  passion 
ately  to  the  love  that  was  now  dead,  she  might  offer  him 
her  heart,  her  body  and  her  soul.  He  wanted  none  of 
the  three  now.  The  break  had  been  final  and  definite, 
love's  path  had  broken  off  upon  the  edge  of  the  preci 
pice,  and  though  she  might  stand  on  the  old  familiar  way 
and  beckon  to  him  to  come  over  and  meet  her,  there  was 
that  between  them  which  no  man  could  cross. 

Like  all  great  passions  the  one  through  which  George 
Wood  had  passed  had  produced  upon  him  a  definite  effect, 
which  could  be  appreciated,  if  not  accurately  measured, 
tie  was  older  in  every  way  now  than  he  had  been  two 
years  and  a  half  earlier,  but  older  chiefly  in  his  under 
standing  of  human  nature.  He  knew,  now,  what  men 
and  women  felt  in  certain  circumstances,  his  instinct  told 
him  truly  what  it  had  formerly  only  vaguely  suggested. 
The  inevitable  logic  of  life  had  taken  him  up  as  a  prob 
lem,  had  dealt  with  him  as  with  a  subject  fitted  to  its 
hand,  and  had  forced  upon  him  a  solution  of  himself. 
Where  he  had  entertained  doubts,  he  now  felt  certainty, 
where  he  had  hesitated  in  expressing  the  judgment  of 
his  tastes  he  now  found  his  verdicts  already  considered 
and  only  awaiting  delivery.  Many  months  later,  when 
the  book  he  was  now  writing  was  published  it  was  a  new 
surprise  to  his  readers.  His  first  attempts  had  been 
noticeable  for  their  beauty,  his  last  book  was  remarkable 
for  its  truth. 

Meanwhile  his  intimacy  with  Mamie  grew  unheeded 
by  himself.  During  the  many  hours  of  each  day  in 
which  he  had  no  fixed  occupation,  he  was  almost  con 
stantly  with  her,  and  their  conversation  was  at  last  only 
interrupted  each  evening  to  begin  again  the  next  after- 


TDK  THI:I:I:   i  \  n-:s. 

noon,  when  In-  had  done  his  work  and  canu1  out  of  his 
room  in  search  of  relaxation.  He  had  never  t'lmnd  anv 

explanation  for  her  embarrassment  «»n  that  day  when  he 

1  iad  been  rowing  her  about  on  tin-  river,  and  after  a  time  he 
had  ceased  to  seek  for  one.  His  lirain  was  too  busy  with 
other  things,  and  what  he  wanted  when  he  was  with 
her  was  rest  rather  than  exercise  for  his  curiosity  in  try 
ing  to  solve  the  small  enigmas  of  her  girlish  thought*. 
She  was  a  very  pleasant  companion,  and  that  was  all  he 
cared  to  know.  She  brought  about  him  an  atmosphere  of 
genuine  and  affectionate  admiration  that  gave  him  confi 
dence  in  himself  and  smoothed  the  furrows  of  his  imag 
ination  when  he  had  been  giving  that  faculty  more  to  do 
than  was  good  for  it. 

.Mamie,  too,  was  happier  than  she  had  been  a  month 
earlier.  She  had  no  longer  to  suffer  the  humiliation  of 
taking  her  mother's  advice  about  what  she  should  do, 
and  she  could  enjoy  George's  company  without  feeling 
that  she  had  been  told  to  enjoy  it  in  her  own  interest. 
As  she  learned  to  love  him  more  and  more,  she  was  quick 
also  to  understand  his  ways.  Signs  that  had  formerly 
escaped  her  altogether  were  now  as  clear  to  her  compre 
hension  as  words  themselves.  She  knew,  now,  almost 
before  he  knew  it  himself,  whether  he  wanted  her  to  join 
him,  or  not,  whether  he  preferred  to  talk  or  to  be  silent, 
whether  he  would  like  this  question  or  that  which  she 
thought  of  asking  him.  or  whether  he  would  resent  it 
and  make  her  feel  that  she  had  made  a  mistake.  One 
day,  she  ventured  t«»  mention  Constance's  name. 

George  had  never  v  i*ited  t  lie  l-Varings  in  t  heir  count  ry- 
jdaee.  and  was  not  aware  until  he  came  to  May  with  hi* 
cousin  that  they  lived  on  the  opposite  shore  of  the  river. 
Their  house  WttM  not  visible  from  the  Trimms'  lift 
it  wa*  surrounded  by  trees,  and  the  stream  was  at  that 
point  nearly  two  miles  in  width.  Totty,  however,  who 
always  hail  a  view  to  avoiding  any  possibility  of  any 
thing  disagreeable,  had  very  soon  .•ommunieated  the 
information  to  George  iii  an  unconcerned  way,  while 


THE   THREE   FATES.  241 

pointing  out  and  naming  to  him  the  various  country-seats 
that  could  be  seen  from  her  part  of  the  shore.  George 
did  not  forget  what  he  had  been  told,  and  if  he  ever 
crossed  the  river  and  rowed  along  the  other  bank,  he 
was  careful  to  keep  away  from  the  Fearings'  land,  in 
order  to  guard  against  any  unpleasant  meetings. 

Now  it  chanced  that  011  a  certain  afternoon  he  was 
pulling  leisurely  up  stream  towards  a  place  where  the 
current  was  slack,  and  where  he  occasionally  moored  the 
wherry  to  an  old  landing  in  order  to  rest  himself  and 
talk  more  at  his  ease.  Mamie  of  course  was  seated  in 
the  stern,  leaning  back  comfortably  amongst  her  cush 
ions  and  holding  the  tiller-ropes  daintily  between  the 
thumb  and  finger  of  each  hand.  She  could  steer  very 
well  when  it  was  necessary,  and  she  could  even  row  well 
enough  to  make  some  headway  against  the  stream,  but 
George  had  been  accustomed  to  being  alone  in  a  boat, 
and  gave  her  very  little  to  do  when  he  was  rowing. 

Mamie  watched  him  idly,  as  his  hands  shot  out 
towards  her,  crossed  as  he  drew  them  steadily  back  and 
turned  at  the  wrist  to  feather  the  oar  as  they  touched 
his  chest.  Then  her  gaze  wandered  down  stream  towards 
the  other  shore,  and  she  tried  to  make  out  the  roof  of 
the  Fearings'  house  above  the  trees. 

"George,"  she  said  suddenly,  "will  you  be  angry?" 

"I  am  never  angry,"  answered  her  cousin.  "What 
are  you  going  to  do  now?  If  you  mean  to  jump  out  of 
the  boat  I  will  have  a  line  ready." 

"  Xo.  I  am  not  going  to  jump  out  of  the  boat.  But 
I  am  so  afraid  you  will  be  angry,  after  all.  It  is  some 
thing  I  want  to  ask  you.  I  am  sure  you  will  not  like  it!  " 

"  One  way  of  not  making  me  angry  would  be  not  to 
ask  the  question,"  observed  George,  with  a  quiet  smile. 

"But  I  want  to  ask  you  so  much!"  exclaimed  the 
young  girl,  with  an  imploring  look  that  made  George's 
smile  turn  into  a  laugh.  He  had  laughed  more  than  once 
lately,  in  a  very  natural  manner. 

"  Out  with  it,  Mamie !  "  he  cried,  pulling  his  sculls 
R 


•J  I'J  INK  THRU    i   \  n-:s. 

bri>kly  through  the  water.  "  I  shall  n..t  be  very  an^rv, 
I  daK'siv,  ami  I  have  fallen  <»ut  of  the  habit  of  eating 
little  girls.  What  is  it?" 

Why  do  you  never  go  and  see  the  Fearing.  <  i-  «>i^,-.' 
You  used  to  l>e  there  so  much." 

George's  expression  changed,  though  he  continued  in 
row  with  the  same  even  stroke.    His  face  grew  very 
and  he  unconsciously  glanced  across  the  river  toward  tin- 
place  at  which  Mamie  had  looked. 

"  I  knew  you  would  l>e  angry!  "  she  said  in  a  repentant 
tone. 

"No,"  George  answered,  "I  am  not  angry.  1  am 
thinking." 

He  was,  indeed,  wondering  how  much  of  the  truth  tin- 
girl  knew,  and  he  was  distrustful  enough  to  fancy  that 
she  might  have  some  object  in  putting  the  question.  I  Jut 
Mamie  was  not  diplomatic  like  her  mother.  She  \va> 
simple  and  natural  in  her  thoughts,  and  unaffected  in  her 
manner.  He  glanced  at  her  again  and  saw  that  she  was 
troubled  by  her  indiscretion. 

"Did  your  mother  never  tell  you  anything  about  it 
all?"  he  asked  after  a  long  pause. 

"No.  I  only  heard  what  everybody  heard  —  last  May. 
when  the  thing  was  talked  alxnit.  I  wondered  that  is 
all  —  T  wondered  whether  vou  had  cared  very  much  t«.r 
her." 

Again  there  was  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by  tin- 
even  dipping  of  the  oars  and  the  soft  swirl  as  tin  \  h-tt 
th»-  water. 

"  I  did  care,"  George  answered  at   last.      "  I  loved  her 
'h-.irh  ." 

ll»-  did  not  know  why  he  made  the  confession.  !!»• 
had  m-v.-r  said  s«.  much  t«.  any  0Bfl  *X06p4  his  mvn  father. 
If  In-  had  gue.NM-d  what  M;,iui«-  felt  fm-  him.  he  would 
a^Mii-i'dly  not  have  answered  her  question. 

••  \r«-  \..u  \,-i\  unhappy,  still?"  asked  the  young  girl 
in  a  di»-;im\  vojee. 

1  d«>  imt  think   I  am  unhappy.      I   am   different 


THE   THREE   FATES.  248 

from  what  I  was  —  that  is  all.  I  was  at  first,"  he  con 
tinued,  without  looking  at  his  companion,  of  whose 
presence,  indeed,  he  seemed  scarcely  conscious,  "  I  was 
unhappy  —  yes,  of  course  I  was.  I  had  loved  her  long. 
1  had  thought  she  would  marry  me.  I  found  that  she 
\vas  indifferent.  1  shall  never  go  and  see  her  again.  She 
does  not  exist  for  me  any  more  —  she  is  another  person, 
whom  I  do  not  wish  to  know.  I  have  loved  and  been 
disappointed,  like  many  a  better  man,  I  suppose." 

"  Loved  and  been  disappointed !  "  repeated  the  young 
girl  in  a  very  low  voice,  that  hardly  reached  his  ear. 
She  was  looking  down,  carelessly  tying  and  untying  the 
ends  of  the  tiller-ropes. 

"Yes.  That  is  it,"  he  said  as  though  musing  on  some 
thing  very  long  past.  "You  know  now  why  I  do  not  go 
there." 

Then  he  quickened  his  stroke  a  little,  and  there  was  a 
sombre  light  in  his  dark  eyes  that  Mamie  could  not  see, 
for  she  was  still  looking  down.  She  was  glad  that  she 
had  asked  the  question,  seeing  how  he  had  answered  it. 
There  was  something  in  his  tone  which  told  her  that  he 
was  not  mistaken  about  himself,  and  that  the  past  was 
shut  off  from  the  present  in  his  heart  by  a  barrier  it 
would  be  hard  to  break  down. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  ever  love  again?"  she  asked, 
after  a  while,  looking  suddenly  into  his  face. 

"No,"  he  answered,  avoiding  her  eyes.  "  I  shall  never 
love  any  woman  again  —  in  the  same  way,"  he  added 
after  a  moment's  pause. 

When  he  looked  at  her,  she  was  very  pale.  He  re 
membered  all  at  once  how  she  had  changed  colour  and 
burst  into  tears  some  weeks  earlier,  sitting  in  that  same 
place  before  him.  Something  was  passing  in  her  mind 
which  he  could  not  understand.  He  was  very  slow  to 
imagine  that  she  loved  him.  He  was  so  dull  of  compre 
hension  that  he  all  at  once  began  to  fancy  she  might  be 
more  fond  of  Constance  Fearing  than  lie  had  guessed, 
that  she  might  be  her  friend,  as  Totty  was,  and  that  the 


•J44  I  HI.    TIIKliK    FATES. 

two  li;i<l  brought  liini  to  their  oountry-hoaM  in  the  hope 

Od  soothing  his  anger,  reviving  his  Imp,-*,  and  bringing 
him  once  more,  into  dose  relations  with  tin-  \  oung  girl 
who  hiul  east  him  off.  Tin-  idea  was  ingenious  in  its 
folly,  but  his  ready  wrath  rose  at  it. 

" Are  you  very  fond  of  her,  Mamie'.'"  IK- asked.  beml- 
iiig  his  heavy  brows  and  speaking  in  a  hard  nn-tall it- 
voice. 

The  blood  rushed  into  the  girl's  far.-  as  she  answered, 
and  her  grey  eyes  flashed. 

"I?     I  hate  her!    I  would  kill  her  if  I  eould!" 

George  was  Completely  confused.  His  explanation  <>t 
Mamie's  l>ehaviour  had  flashed  upon  him  ><»  suddenly 
that,  he  had  believed  it  the  true  one  without  an  attempt 
to  reason  upon  the  matter.  Now,  it  was  destroyed  m  an 
instant  by  the  girl's  angry  reply.  When  one  \oung 
woman  says  that  she  hates  another,  it  is  tolerably  .  a>\ 
to  judge  from  her  tone  whether  she  is  in  earnest  or  not. 
Though  he  was  still  sorely  puzzled,  the  cloud  disap 
peared  from  George's  face  as  quickly  as  it  had  .erne. 

"This  is  a  revelation !"  he  exclaimed.  u  I  thought  von 
and  your  mother  were  devoted  to  them  both." 

"It  would  l>e  like  me,  would  it  not'.'"  Mamie  empha 
sised  her  words  with  an  angry  little  laugh. 

"It  is  not  like  you  to  hate  people  BO  savagely,"  (ieorge 
observed,  looking  at  her  closely. 

"I  should  always  hate  anybody   who  hurt  you  —  and 
I  can  hate,  with  all  my  heart !  " 
Are  you  so  fond  of  me  as  that  .' ' 

George  thought  that  the  girl  \\a>  hi-cnming  every 
moment  harder  to  undent  and.  It  had  seeim-d  a  \ery  nat 
ural  (jiiotion.  Mnce  the\  had  known  each  other  and  l«>ved 
each  other  like  brother  and  >ister  for  so  long.  Hut  he 
saw  that  there  wa^  .something  the  matter.  Ther-  was  .1 
frightened  look  in  Mamie'-  jpej  eyes  which  he  had 
•11  Ijefore,  a>  though  she  had  conn-  all  at  once 
upon  a  great  and  unexpeeteil  danurt>r.  Then  all  the  out 
line  oi  her  tare  >oftened  wonderfully  witli  a  Itnage  and 


THE   THREE   FATES.  245 

gentle  expression  under  the  young  man's  gaze.  She  had 
never  been  pretty,  save  for  her  eyes  and  her  alabaster 
skin.  For  one  moment,  now,  she  was  beautiful. 

"  Yes, "  she  said  in  an  uncertain  voice,  "  I  am  very  fond 
of  you  —  more  fond  of  you  than  you  will  ever  know." 

Her  secret  was  out,  though  she  did  not  realise  it. 
Then  for  the  first  time  in  George's  life,  though  he  was 
nearly  thirty  years  of  age,  he  looked  on  the  face  of  a 
woman  who  loved  him  with  all  her  heart,  and  he  knew 
what  love  meant  in  another,  as  he  had  known  it  in  him 
self. 

The  sun  was  going  down  behind  the  western  hills  and 
the  dark  water  was  very  smooth  and  placid  as  he  dipped 
his  sculls  noiselessly  into  the  surface.  He  rowed  evenly 
on  for  some  minutes  without  speaking.  Mamie  was  look 
ing  into  the  stream  and  drawing  her  white,  ungloved 
hand  along  the  glassy  mirror. 

"Thank  you,  Mamie,"  he  said  at  last,  very  gently  and 
kindly. 

Again  there  was  silence  as  they  shot  along  through  the 
purple  shadows. 

"  And  you,  are  you  fond  of  me?  "  asked  the  young  girl, 
looking  furtively  towards  him,  then  blushing  and  gazing 
once  more  into  the  depths  of  the  stream.  George  started 
slightly.  He  had  not  thought  that  the  question  would 
come. 

"  Indeed  I  am, "  he  answered.  He  thought  he  heard  a 
sigh  on  the  rising  evening  breeze.  "  I  grow  more  fond 
of  you  every  day,"  he  added  quietly,  though  he  felt  that 
he  was  very  far  from  calm. 

So  far  as  he  had  spoken,  his  words  had  been  truthful. 
He  was  becoming  more  attached  to  Mamie  every  day, 
and  she  was  beginning  to  take  the  place  that  Constance 
had  occupied  in  his  doings  if  not  in  his  thoughts.  But 
there  was  not  a  spark  of  love  in  his  growing  affection 
for  her,  and  the  discovery  he  had  just  made  disturbed 
him  exceedingly.  He  had  never  blamed  himself  for 
anything  he  had  done  in  his  intercourse  with  Constance 


Till.    THKKK    FATl-.s. 

1'.-, u  in-.  but  In-  aceiised  himself  now  of  having  misled 
the  innocent  girl  who  loved  him  and  of  having  then,  by 
a  careless  question,  drawn  from  her  a  confession  of  what 
she  felt.  It  flashed  upon  him  suddenly  that  In-  had  taken 
Constance's  place,  and  Mamie  had  taken  his;  that  In-  had 
been  thoughtless  and  cruel  in  all  he  had  said  and  done 
during  the  last  two  months,  and  that  she  might  well  re 
proach  him  with  having  been  heartless.  A  thousand 
incidents  flooded  his  memory  and  crowded  together  upon 
his  brain,  and  each  brought  with  it  a  sting  to  his  sense 
of  honour.  He  had  inadvertently  done  a  great  harm, 
and  it  had  been  done  since  his  coming  to  the  country. 
Before  that,  Mamie  had  felt  for  him  exactly  what  he  still 
felt  i'or  her,  a  simple,  open-hearted  affection.  Kemember- 
iiig  the  brief  struggle  that  had  taken  place  in  his  mind 
before  he  had  accepted  Totty 's  invitation,  he  accused 
himself  of  having  known  beforehand  what  would  happen, 
and  of  having  weakly  yielded  because  he  had  liked  tin- 
prospect  of  leading  so  luxurious  an  existence.  \Yhat 
surprised  him,  however,  and  threw  all  his  reflections  out 
of  balance  was  that  Totty  herself  should  not  have  fore- 
Men  the  disaster,  Totty  the  diplomatic,  Totty  tin- 
worldly,  Totty  the  covetous,  who  would  as  soon  have 
given  her  daughter  to  one  of  her  servants  as  to  penniless 
G.eorge  Wood!  It  Wcis  past  comprehension.  Yet,  in 
spite  of  his  distress,  he  coukl  hardly  repress  a  smile  as 
he  imagined  what  Totty's  rap-  uould  be.  should  he  marry 
Mamie  and  carry  her  off  l>efore  the  eyes  of  her  horrified 
parent.  Sherrington  Trimm,  himself,  would  be  as  well 
satisfied  with  him  as  with  any  other  honest  man.  if  he 
were  sure  of  Mamie's  inclinations. 

Now,  however,  something  niust  be  done  at  oner.  He 
was  not  a  weak  creature,  like  Constance  Fearing,  to  hesi 
tate  for  months  and  years,  practising  a  deception  upon 
himself  which  he  had  not  the  courage  to  carry  to  the  end. 
He  even  regretted  the  last  words  he  had  spoken,  and 
which  had  been  prompted  by  a  foolish  wish  not  to  hurt 
the  girl's  feelings.  It  would  have  been  better  it  he  had 


THE   THREE    FATES.  247 

left  them  unsaid.  The  situation  must  be  defined,  the 
harm  arrested,  if  it  could  not  be  undone,  and  should  it 
seem  necessary,  as  it  probably  would,  he  himself  must 
leave  the  place  on  the  following  morning.  He  opened 
his  mouth  to  speak,  but  the  blood  rushed  to  his  face  and 
he  could  not  articulate  the  words.  He  was  overcome 
with  shame  and  remorse  and  he  would  have  chosen  to  do 
anything,  to  undergo  any  humiliation  rather  than  this. 
But  in  a  moment  his  strong  nature  gathered  itself  and 
grew  strong,  as  it  always  did  in  the  face  of  great  diffi 
culties.  He  hated  hesitation  and  he  would  not  hesitate, 
cost  what  it  might.  He  was  not  cowardly,  and  he  would 
not  be  afraid. 

"Mamie,"  he  said,  suddenly,  and  he  wondered  how  his 
voice  could  be  so  gentle,  "Mamie,  I  do  not  love  you." 

He  had  expected  everything,  except  what  happened. 
Mamie  looked  into  his  eyes,  and  once  again  in  the  even 
ing  light  the  expression  of  her  love  transfigured  her  half 
pretty  face  and  lent  it  a  completeness  of  beauty  such  as 
he  had  never  seen. 

"  Have  you  not  told  me  that,  dear? "  she  asked,  half 
sadly,  half  lovingly.  "  It  is  not  IICAV.  I  have  known  it 
long." 

George  stared  at  her  for  a  moment. 

"I  feared  I  had  not  said  it  clearly,"  he  answered  in 
low  tones. 

"  Everything  you  have  done  and  said  has  told  me  that, 
for  two  months  past.  Do  not  say  it  again." 

"  I  must  go  away  from  this  place.  I  will  go  to-mor 
row.  " 

She  looked  up  with  startled  eyes. 

"Go  away?  Leave  me?  Ah,  George,  you  will  not  be 
so  unkind !  " 

The  situation  was  certainly  as  strange  as  it  was  new, 
and  George  was  very  much  confused  by  what  was  happen 
ing.  His  resolution  to  make  everything  clear  was,  how 
ever,  as  unbending  as  before. 

"Mamie,"  he  said,  "we  must  understand  each  other. 


248  THF  THRF.K  PATH. 

Things  must  imt  go  on  ;l.s  they  have  gone  so  long.  If  T 
were  to  stay  here,  do  you  know  \\liat  I  should  l>e  doing? 
I  should  IK-  acting  towards  you  u  <  "iistance  Fearing 
acted  \\-itli  me.  only  it  would  In-  much  worse,  because  I 
am  a  man,  and  I  have  no  right  to  do  such  things,  as 
women  have.'' 

"It  is  different,"  said  the  young  girl,  once  more  look 
ing  down  into  the  water. 

"No,  it  is  not  different,"  (ieor-e  insisted.  "  I  have  no 
right  to  act  as  though  I  should  ever  love  \»\\.  to  make 
you  think  by  anything  I  do  or  say.  that  Mich  a  thing  is 
possible.  I  am  a  bruti-,  I  know.  Forgive  UH-.  Maiuic. 
dear.  It  is  so  much  better  that  rv.-ry thing  should  be 
clearly  understood  now.  \\Y  have  known  each  other  so 
Ion -4.  and  so  well  — 

"Nothing  that  you  can  say  will  make  it  seem  right  to 
me  that  yon  should  go  away  — 

"  It  is  right,  nevertheless,  and  if  I  do  not  do  it,  as  I 
should,  1  shall  never  forgive  myself " 

"I  will  forgive  you." 

"I  shall  hate  myself 

"I  will  love  you.'' 

"I  shall  feel  that  I  am  the  most  miserable  wretch 
alive.'' 

"I  shall  be  happy." 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

George  had  rowed  to  a  point  where  a  deep  indenta 
tion  in  the  >ln»iv  ot  the  river  oft'eivd  a  lu-oad  expanse  of 
water  in  which  tin-re  was  but  little  current.  He  retted 
on  his  OATS,  bending  his  head  and  leaning  .slightly  for 
ward.  It  seemed  \,T\  hard  that  he  should  Middenlv  be 
•  ailed  upon  to  decide  so  important  a  i|ue>tion  as  had  just 
.iriscii,  at  the  ver\  nnnm-nt  when  he  was  writing  the  most 
difficult  and  inti-n^ting  part  of  his  book.  To  go  away 


THE   THREE   FATES.  249 

was  not  only  to  deprive  himself  of  many  things  which 
he  liked,  and  among  those  Mamie's  own  society  had 
taken  the  foremost  place  of  late ;  it  meant  also  to  break 
the  current  of  his  ideas  and  to  arrest  his  own  progress  at 
the  most  critical  juncture.  He  remembered  with  loath 
ing  the  days  he  had  spent  in  his  little  room  in  New 
York,  cudgelling  his  inert  brain  and  racking  his  imagi 
nation  for  a  plot,  a  subject,  for  one  single  character,  for 
anything  of  which  he  might  make  a  beginning.  And  he 
looked  back  to  a  nearer  time,  and  saw  how  easily  his  mind 
had  worked  amidst  its  new  and  pleasant  surroundings. 
It  is  no  wonder  that  he  hesitated.  Only  the  artist  can 
understand  his  own  interest  in  his  art;  only  the  writer, 
and  the  writer  of  real  talent,  can  tell  what  acute  suffer 
ing  it  is  to  be  interrupted  in  the  midst  of  a  piece  of 
good  work,  while  its  success  is  still  uncertain  in  the 
balance  of  his  mind  and  while  he  still  depends  largely 
upon  outward  circumstances  for  the  peace  and  quiet 
which  are  necessary  to  serious  mental  labour. 

George  was  not  heroic,  though  there  was  a  touch  of 
quixotism  in  his  nature.  The  temptation  to  stay  where 
he  was,  had  a  force  he  had  not  expected.  Moreover, 
whether  he  would  or  not,  the  expression  he  had  twice 
seen  in  Mamie's  face  on  that  afternoon,  haunted  him  and 
fascinated  him.  He  experienced  the  operation  of  a  charm 
unknown  before.  He  looked  up  and  gazed  at  the  young 
girl  as  she  sat  far  back  in  the  stern  of  the  boat.  She 
was  not  pretty,  or  at  most,  not  more  than  half  pretty. 
Her  mouth  was  decidedly  far  too  large,  and  her  nose 
lacked  outline.  She  had  a  fairly  good  forehead;  he  ad 
mitted  that  much,  but  her  chin  was  too  pointed  and  had 
little  modelling  in  it,  while  her  cheeks  would  have  been 
decidedly  uninteresting  but  for  the  extreme  beauty  of 
her  complexion.  She  was  looking  down,  and  he  could 
not  see  the  grey  eyes  which  were  her  best  feature,  but  it 
could  not  be  denied  that  the  long  dark  drooping  lashes 
and  the  strongly  marked  brown  eyebrows  contrasted 
very  well  with  the  transparent  skin.  Her  hair  was  not 


THE   THREE    FATES. 

bad,  though  it  was  impossible  to  say  whether  those  little 
t  mglcd  ringlets  were  natural  or  were  produced  daily  b\ 
the  skilful  appliance  of  artificial  torsion.  It'  her  mouth 
was  an  exaggerated  feature,  at  least  the  long,  even  lips 
were  fresh  and  youthful,  and,  when  parted,  they  disclosed 
a  verv  jtcrfcct  set  of  teeth.  All  this  was  true,  and  as 
(ieorgc  looked,  he  summed  up  the  various  points  and 
decided  that  \vheu  Mamie  wore  her  best  expression,  she 
illicit  pass  for  a  pretty  girl. 

r.ut  she  possessed  more  than  that.  The  catalogue  did 
not  explain  her  wonderful  charm.  It  was  not,  indeed, 
complete,  and  as  he  glanced  from  her  downcast  face  to 
the  outlines  of  her  shapely  figure,  he  felt  the  sensation  a 
man  experiences  in  turning  quickly  from  the  examina 
tion  of  a  common  object,  to  the  contemplation  of  one 
that  is  very  beautiful.  Psyche  herself  could  have  boasted 
no  greater  perfection  of  form  and  grace  than  belonged  to 
this  girl  whose  features  were  almost  all  insignificant. 
The  triumph  of  proportion  began  at  her  throat,  under 
the  small  ears  that  were  set  so  close  to  the  head,  and  tin- 
faultless  lines  continued  throughout  all  the  curves  of 
beauty  to  the  point  of  her  exquisite  foot,  to  the  longest 
ringer  of  her  classic  hand.  Not  a  line  was  too  .short,  not 
a  line  too  long,  there  was  no  straightness  in  any  one. 
and  not  one  of  them  all  followed  too  strong  a  curve. 

George  thought  of  Constance  and  made  comparisons 
with  a  coolness  that  surprised  himself.  Constance  was 
tall,  straight,  well  grown,  active;  slight,  indeed,  but 
graceful  enough,  and  gifted  with  much  natural  MUM  in 
motion.  But  that  was  all.  so  tar  as  tigniv  was  concerned, 
(ieorge  had  seen  a  hundred  girls  with  just  the  same  ad 
vantages  as  Constance,  and  all  tar  prettier  than  his 
cousin.  Neither  Constance  n«.r  any  of  them  could  com- 
pa'-e  with  Mamie  except  in  face.  His  eye  rested  on  her 
now.  when  she  was  in  iepo.se.  with  untiring  satisfaction, 
as  his  sight  delighted  in  each  new  surprise  of  motion 
when  she  moved,  whether  on  horseback,  or  walking,  or 
at  tennis.  She  represented  to  him  the  absolute  ideal  of 


THE   THREE   FATES.  251 

refined  animal  life,  combined  with  something  spiritual 
that  escaped  definition,  but  which  made  itself  felt  in  all 
she  did  and  said. 

When  he  thought  of  depriving  himself  for  a  long  time 
of  her  society,  he  discovered  that  he  admired  her  far 
more  than  he  had  suspected.  It  was  admiration,  but  it 
was  nothing  more.  He  felt  no  pain  at  the  suggestion  of 
leaving  her,  but  it  seemed  as  though  he  were  about  to 
be  robbed  of  some  object  familiar  to  him,  to  keep  which 
was  a  source  of  unfailing,  though  indolent,  satisfaction. 
He  could  not  imagine  himself  angry,  if  some  man  of  his 
acquaintance  had  married  Mamie  the  next  day,  provided 
that  he  might  talk  to  her  as  he  pleased  and  watch  her 
when  he  liked.  There  was  not  warmth  enough  in  what 
he  felt  for  her  to  kindle  one  spark  of  jealousy  against 
any  one  whom  she  might  choose  for  a  husband. 

But  there  was  something  added  to  the  odd  sort  of 
attraction  which  the  girl  exercised  over  him,  something 
which  had  only  begun  to  influence  him  during  the  last 
quarter  of  an  hour  or  less.  She  loved  him,  and  he  had 
just  found  it  out.  There  is  nothing  more  enviable  than 
to  love  and  be  loved  in  return,  and  nothing  more  painful 
than  to  be  loved  to  distraction  by  a  person  one  dislikes. 
It  may  be  said,  perhaps,  that  nothing  can  be  so  disturb 
ing  to  the  judgment  as  to  be  loved  by  an  individual  to 
whom  one  feels  oneself  strongly  attracted  in  a  wholly  dif 
ferent  way.  George  Wood  did  not  know  exactly  what 
was  happening  to  him,  and  he  did  not  feel  himself  able 
to  judge  his  own  case  with  any  sort  of  impartiality ;  but 
his  instinct  told  him  to  go  away  as  soon  as  possible  and 
to  break  off  all  intercourse  with  his  cousin  during  some 
time  to  come.  She  had  argued  the  question  with  him  in 
her  own  way  and  had  found  answers  to  all  he  said,  but 
he  was  not  satisfied.  It  was  his  duty  to  leave  Mamie, 
no  matter  at  what  cost,  and  he  meant  to  go  at  once. 

"My  dear  Mamie,"  he  said  at  last,  still  unconsciously 
admiring  the  grace  of  her  attitude,  "  I  am  very  sorry  for 
myself,  but  there  is  only  one  way.  I  cannot  stay  here 
any  longer." 


252  THE   THKKF.    FATES. 

Sin-  raised  her  eyefi  and  looked  steadily  at  liiin. 

"  (  hi  my  account '.'  "    she  asked. 

"Yes.  and  you  km»\v  I  am  ri^ht." 

"  Because  1  bav 6 been foolifh and  —  and  —  unmaidenly, 
i  Slip] 

"  Dear  rhild  —  hoxy  V«MI  talk.1  "  <  leoi^e  exclaimed.  "  I 
never  said  anything  of  the  kind!"  He  was  seriously 
embarrassed  to  find  an  answer  to  her  statement. 

"Of  eourse  you  did  not  say  it.  I  Jut  you  probably 
thought  it.  which  is  the  same  tiling.  After  all.  it  is 
true,  you  know.  Hut  tlien.  liaye  I  not  a  right  to  be  fool 
ish,  it  I  jilfa.se'.'  1  have  known  you  so  long.'' 

"Yes  indeed!"  (Jeorge  answered  with  alaerity.  for  he 
was  ^rlad  to  be  aide  to  a^ive  with  her  in  something.  "It 
is  a  lout;  time,  as  you  say  -ever  since  we  were  children 

together." 

•  Then  you  think  there  wsis  nothing  so  very  bad  about 
what  I  said?" 

"It  was  thoughtless  —  I  do  not  know  what  it  was. 
There  was  certainly  nothing  had  in  it,  and  besides,  you 
did  not  mean  it,  you  know,  did  you?" 

"Then  why  do  you  want  to  -«.  away'.'  "  inquired  Mamie, 
with  feminine  loijie.  and  candour. 

"Why  because  (imr^.-  stopped  as  people  often 

do.  at  that  word,  well  knowing  what  he  had  been  alxnit 
to  Bay,  but  now  suddenly  unwilling  to  say  it.  In  fact, 
to  say  anything  under  the  circumstances  would  haye  been 
a  flagrant  breach  of  tact.  Since  Mamie  almost  admitted 
that  she  had  meant  nothing,  she  had  only  been  making 
fun  of  him  and  he  could  not  well  think  of  tfoin.ur  away 
without  seeming  ridiculous  in  his  own  oyeB. 

"'  BeOMIfe,'  without  anythini:  att«-r  it.  is  only  a  wo 
man's  reason."  said  the  youn-  .urirl  with  a  lau^h. 

"Women's  reasons  are  sometimes  the  best.  At  all 
•  •vents.  I  have  often  heard  yon  say  10." 

"I  am  often  lauffhinij  at  you.  when  I  seem  most  in 
earnest.  (Jeor-e.  Have  you  never  noticed  that  I  have  a 
tine  talent  tor  ironx  7  I  >o  you  think  that  if  I  were  ver\ 


THE   THREE   FATES.  253 

much  in  love  with  you,  I  would  tell  you  so?  How  con 
ceited  you  must  be !  " 

"  No  indeed !  "  George  asseverated.  "  I  would  not 
imagine  that  you  could  do  such  a  thing.  When  I  told 
you  I  would  go  away,  I  was  only  entering  into  the  spirit 
of  the  thing  and  carrying  on  your  idea." 

"It  was  very  well  done.  I  cannot  help  laughing  at 
the  serious  face  you  made." 

"  Nor  I,  at  yours, "  said  the  young  man  beginning  to 
pull  the  boat  slowly  about. 

Matters  had  taken  a  very  unexpected  turn  and  he  began 
to  feel  his  determination  to  depart  oozing  out  of  his  fin 
gers  in  a  way  he  had  not  expected.  His  position,  indeed, 
was  absurd.  He  could  not  argue  with  Mamie  the  ques 
tion  of  whether  she  had  been  in  earnest  or  not.  There 
fore  he  was  obliged  to  accept  her  statement,  that  she  had 
been  jesting.  And  if  he  did  so,  how  could  he  humiliate 
her  by  showing  that  he  still  believed  she  loved  him?  Tn 
other  words,  by  packing  up  his  traps  and  taking  a  sum 
mary  leave.  He  would  only  be  making  a  laughing-stock 
of  himself  in  her  eyes.  Nor  was  he  altogether  free  from 
an  unforeseen  sensation  of  disappointment,  very  slight, 
very  vague,  and  very  embarrassing  to  his  self-esteem. 
Look  at  it  as  he  would,  his  vanity  had  been  flattered  by 
her  confession,  and  it  had  also,  in  some  way,  appealed 
to  his  heart.  To  be  loved  by  some  one,  as  she  had 
seemed  to  love,  when  that  expression  had  passed  over 
her  face!  The  idea  was  pleasant,  attractive,  one  on 
which  he  would  dwell  hereafter  and  which  would  stimu 
late  his  comprehension  when  he  was  describing  scenes  of 
love  in  his  books. 

"  So  of  course  you  will  stay  and  behave  like  a  human 
being,"  said  Mamie,  after  a  short  pause,  as  though  she 
had  summed  up  the  evidence,  deliberated  upon  it  and 
were  giving  the  verdict. 

"I  suppose  I  shall,"  George  answered  in  a  regretful 
tone,  though  he  could  not  repress  a  smile. 

"You  seem  to  be  sorry,"  observed  the  young  girl  with 


254  THE    THKEE    FATES. 

a  quick,  laughing  glance  of  her  grey  eyes.  "Tf  there  arr 
any  other  reasons  for  your  sudden  departure.  it  is  quite 
another  matter.  Tin-  one  y<»u  gave  has  turned  out  badly. 
You  have  not  proved  the  necessity  for  ensuring  mv 
salvation  by  taking  tin-  next  train." 

"I  would  have  gone  by  the  boat/'  said  (leorge. 

"Why?" 

u  Because  the  river  would  have  reminded  me  to  the 
last  of  this  evening." 

"Do  you  want  to  be  reminded  of  it  as  mucli  as  that?" 
,i-ked  Mamie. 

"Sinee  it  turns  out  to  have  l>een  such  a  very  pleasant 
evenin;_r.  alter  all."  (Icorge  answered.  glad  to  escape  on 
any  terms  from  the  position  in  which  his  last  thought  l.->^ 
remark  had  placed  him. 

Mamie  luid  shown  considerable  tiict  in  the  \\ay  by 
which  she  had  recovered  herself,  and  (lem-r  was  uncon 
sciously  grateful  to  her  for  having  saved  him  I'mm  the 
necessity  of  an  abrupt  leave-taking,  altliou^h  he  could 
not  get  rid  of  the  idea  that  she  had  been  more  than  half 
in  earnest  in  the  beginning. 

"It  was  very  well  done."  he  said  after  they  had  landed 
that  evening  and  were  walking  up  to  the  house  through 
the  flower  garden. 

"Yes,"  Mamie  answered.  "1  am  a  very  good  actress. 
They  always  say  so  in  the  private  theatricals." 

The  evening  colour  had  gone  from  the  sky  and  the 
moon  was  already  in  the  .sky.  not  yet  at  the  full.  Mamie 
;  Mill  in  the  path  and  plucked  a  rose. 

•'  I  can  act  beautifully."  .she  >aid  with  a  low  laugh. 
"Would  \ou  like  me  to  give  you  a  little  exhibition'.' 
at  me  —  so  —  now  the  moonlight  is  on  m  face  and 


you  can  see  me." 

She.  looked  up  into  hi.s  c\e>.  and  once  more  her  fea 
tures  seemed  t<>  be  transfigured.  She  laid  one  hand  upon 
his  arm  and  with  the  other  hand  raised  tin-  NMM  to  her 
lips,  ki.vsed  it.  her  eyefl  >till  fixed  on  his.  then  smiled  and 
-poke  three  words  iii  a  low  voice  that  seemed  to  send  a 
thrill  through  the  quiet  air. 


THK   THREE    FATES.  255 

"I  love  you." 

Then  she  made  as  though  she  would  have  fastened  the 
flower  in  his  white  flannel  jacket,  and  he,  believing  she 
would  do  it,  and  still  looking  at  her,  bent  a  little  forward 
and  held  the  buttonhole  ready.  All  at  once,  she  sprang 
back  with  a  quick,  graceful  movement  and  laughed 
again. 

"Was  it  not  well  done?"  she  cried,  tossing  the  rose 
far  away  into  one  of  the  beds. 

"Admirably,"  George  answered.  "I  never  saw  any 
thing  equal  to  it.  How  you  must  have  studied!  " 

"  For  years, "  said  the  young  girl,  speaking  in  her  usual 
tone  and  beginning  to  walk  by  his  side  towards  the 
house. 

It  was  certainly  very  strange,  George  thought,  that 
she  should  be  able  to  assume  such  an  expression  and  such 
a  tone  of  voice  at  a  moment's  notice,  if  there  were  no 
real  love  in  her  heart.  But  it  was  impossible  to  quar 
rel  with  the  way  she  had  done  it.  There  had  been  some 
thing  so  supremely  graceful  in  her  attitude,  something 
so  winning  in  her  smile,  something  in  her  accent  which 
so  touched  the  heart,  that  the  incident  remained  fixed  in 
his  memory  as  a  wonderful  picture,  never  to  be  forgotten. 
It  affected  his  artistic  sense  so  strongly  that  before  he 
went  to  bed  he  took  his  pen  and  wrote  it  down,  taking  a 
keen  pleasure  in  putting  into  shape  the  details  of  the 
scene,  and  especially  in  describing  what  escaped  descrip 
tion,  the  mysterious  fascination  of  the  girl  herself.  He 
read  it  over  in  bed,  was  satisfied  with  it,  thrust  it  under 
his  pillow,  and  went  to  sleep  to  dream  it  over  again  just 
as  it  had  happened,  with  one  important  exception.  In 
his  dream,  the  figure,  the  voice,  the  words,  were  all 
Mamie's,  but  the  face  was  that  of  Constance  Fearing, 
though  it  wore  a  look  which  he  had  never  seen  there.  In 
the  morning  he  laughed  over  the  whole  affair,  being  only 
too  ready  to  believe  that  Mamie  had  really  been  laugh 
ing  at  him  and  that  she  had  only  been  acting  the  little 
scene  with  the  rose  in  the  garden. 


•J.')»;  i  UK   IKI:KK  FATKS. 

A  few  days  later  an  event  occurred  which  again  made 
liiin  doubtful  in  the  matter.  Since  that  evening  he  had 
It-It  that  In-  had  grown  in. .re  intimate  with  his  cousin 
than  before.  Tln-iv  hail  been  no  renewal  of  tin-  danger 
ous  pla}'on  her  part,  though  both  had  referred  to  it  more 
than  once.  Oddly  enough  it  const itutrd  a  sort  of  harm 
less  secret,  which  had  to  be  krpt  from  Mamie's  mother 
and  over  which  they  could  be  merry  only  when  they  were 
alone.  Yet,  as  far  as  George  was  concerned,  tin  nigh  the 
bond  had  grown  closer  in  those  days,  its  nature  had  not 
changed,  nor  was  he  any  nearer  to  being  persuaded  that 
his  cousin  was  actually  in  love  with  him. 

At  that  time.  .lohn  I.ond  and  his  wife,  having  made  a 
very  short  trip  to  Canada,  returned  to  New  York  and 
came  thence  to  establish  themselves  in  the  old  Fearing 
house  for  the  rest  of  the  summer.  .lohn  could  not  h-a\  e 
the  business  for  more  than  ten  days  in  the  absence  of  his 
partner,  and  he  did  as  so  many  other  men  do,  who  spend 
the  hot  months  on  the  river,  going  to  town  in  the  morn 
ing  and  coming  back  in  the  evening.  On  Sundays  only 
John  Pxmd  did  not  make  his  daily  trip  to  New  York. 

Since  his  marriage,  he  and  (irace  had  not  been  over  to 
seethe  Trimms,  though  Mrs.  Trimm  had  once  been  over 
to  them  on  a  week-day  in  obedience  to  the  custom  which 
prescribes  that  every  one  must  call  on  a  bride.  There 
had  l>een  much  suave  coldness  between  Totty  and  the 
Fearings  since  the  report  of  the  broken  engagement  had 
been  circulated,  hut  appearances  were  nevertheless  main 
tained,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  F.ond  frit  that  it  was  their  dut\ 
to  return  the  visit  as  >oon  as  possible.  Constance  ac 
companied  them  and  the  three  sailed  across  the  river 
late  mi  one  Sunday  afternoon.  The  river  is  a  great  bar 
rier  a^ain>t  news,  and  as  Totty  had  kept  her  house  empty 
"t  urueMs.  for  some  reasnii  IM-M  known  to  hrrsrlf.  and  had 
written  to  none  of  her  many  intimate  friends  that  (Jrorgr 
\\ 1  was  -spending  the  .summer  with  her,  the  thrre  vis 
itors  had  DO  expectation  of  finding  him  among  the  party. 

Daring  the  time  which  had  followed  her  departure  from 


THE   THREE   FATES.  257 

town,  Constance  Fearing  had  fallen  into  a  listless  habit  of 
mind,  from  which  she  had  found  it  hard  to  rouse  herself 
even  so  far  as  to  help  in  the  preparations  for  her  sister's 
marriage.  When  the  ceremony  was  over,  she  had  with 
drawn  again  to  her  country-house  in  the  sole  company  of 
the  elderly  female  relation  who  has  been  mentioned  al 
ready  once  or  twice  in  the  course  of  this  history. 

She  was  extremely  unhappy  in  her  own  way,  and  there 
were  moments  when  the  pain  she  had  suffered  renewed 
itself  suddenly,  when  she  wept  bitter  tears  over  the 
sacrifice  she  had  been  so  determined  to  make.  After  one 
of  these  crises  she  was  usually  more  listless  and  indiffer 
ent  than  ever,  to  all  outward  appearance,  though  in 
reality  her  mind  was  continually  preying  upon  itself, 
going  over  the  past  again  and  again,  living  through  the 
last  moments  of  happiness  she  had  known,  and  facing 
in  imagination  the  struggle  she  had  imposed  upon  her 
self.  She  did  not  grow  suddenly  thin,  nor  fall  ill,  nor 
go  mad,  as  women  do  who  have  passed  through  some 
desperate  trial  of  the  heart.  She  possessed,  indeed,  the 
sort  of  constitution  which  sometimes  breaks  down  under 
a  violent  strain  from  without,  but  she  had  not  been  ex 
posed  to  anything  which  could  bring  about  so  fatal  a 
result.  It  was  rather  the  regret  for  a  lost  interest  in  her 
life  than  the  keen  agony  of  separation  from  one  she  had 
loved,  which  affected  her  spirits  and  reacted  very  slowly 
upon  her  health.  At  certain  moments  the  sense  of  lone 
liness  made  itself  felt  more  strongly  than  at  others,  and 
she  gave  way  to  tears  and  lamentation,  in  the  privacy  of 
her  own  room,  without  knowing  exactly  what  she  wanted. 
She  still  believed  that  she  had  done  right  in  sending 
( it-urge  away,  but  she  missed  what  he  had  taken  with 
him,  the  daily  incense  offered  at  her  shrine,  the  small 
daily  emotions  she  had  felt  when  with  him,  and  which 
her  sensitive  temper  had  liked  for  their  very  smallness. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  she  had  loved  him  a  little,  as 
she  had  said,  for  she  had  always  been  ready  to  acknowl 
edge  everything  she  felt.  But  it  was  questionable 

s 


258  THE    THKEK    I  All.-. 

whether  her  l<>\e  had  increased  or  decreased  since  she 

had  parted  from  him,  and  her  tits  <»t'  spasmodic  «;riet'  were 
j)robalily  net  to  In-  attributed  to  genuine  love->ickness. 

*  Mi  that  particular  Sunday  afternoon  cho>en  h\  the 
I '.Minis  tor  their  vi>it  to  M  r>.  Sherrin^ton  Triinm,  Con- 
>Tanc»'  \va.s  as  thoroughly  indifferent  as  usual  to  every 
thing  thai  went  on.  She  \vas  willing  to  join  her  sister 
and  brother-in-law  in  their  expedition  rather  than  Ma\ 
at  home  and  do  nothing,  hut  her  mind  was  disturbed  b\ 
no  presentiment  ..{any  meeting  with  George  \\'ood. 

It  was  towards  evening,  and  the  air  was  already  cool 
by  comparison  with  the  heat  of  the  day.  Mrs.  Trinim. 
her  daughter  and  George  wert-  all  three  >eated  in  a 
\t-randah  I'mm  which  they  ovei'hioked  the  river  and  could 
see  their  own  neat  landing-pier  beyond  the  Hower-^ar- 
den.  Tlie  weather  had  been  hot  and  none  of  the  three 
were  much  inclined  for  conversation.  Suddenly  Totty 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"Those    people    are    coining    here!       \Yho    are    they. 

Oeorge?    ('an  you  see?" 

George  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  landing  and  saw  that  the 
sail-boat  had  brought  to.  At  the  same  moment  the  sails 
were  quickly  furled  and  a  man  threw  a  rope  over  one  «>t 
the  wooden  pillars.  A  few  seconds  elapsed  and  three 
%ures  were  seen  upon  the  ^anleii-walk. 

"I  wish  you  could  see  who  they  are.  deorge."  said 
Totty  rather  impatiently.  "It  is  so  awkward  —  not 

knowing.91 

"1  think  it  is  Miss  Fearing,"  George  answered  slowly. 
"  with  her  si>ter  and  John  Ilond." 

He  wa.s  the  only  one  of  the  three  who  did  not  change 
•  •••lour  a  little  as  the  party  drew  near.  Mamie's  marble 
liM-i-head  LTrew  a  shade  \\hiter.  and  Tntty's  pn-tty  pink 
lace  a  little  more  pink.  She  was  annoyed  at  hein.i,'  taken 
unawares,  and  was  sorry  that  (Jeor^r  was  present.  A- 
for  Mamie,  her  _Ljre\  eyes  ^parkled  rat  her  coldly,  and  her 
large,  even  lips  were  tightly  closed  over  her  beautiful 
teeth.  But  George  \\a^  imperturbable,  and  it  would 


THE   THKEE   FATES.  259 

have  been  impossible  to  guess  from  his  faoe  what  he  felt. 
He  observed  the  three  curiously  as  they  approached  the 
verandah.  He  thought  that  Constance  looked  pale  and 
thin,  and  he  recognised  in  Grace  and  her  husband  that 
peculiar  appearance  of  expensive  and  untarnished  new 
ness  which  characterises  newly-married  Americans. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  over !  "  Totty  exclaimed 
with  laudably  hospitable  insincerity.  "  It  is  an  age  since 
we  have  seen  any  of  you !  " 

Mamie  gave  Constance  her  hand  and  said  something 
civil,  though  she  fixed  her  grey  eyes  on  the  other's  blue 
ones  with  singular  and  rather  disagreeable  intensity. 

"  George  has  been  talking  to  her  about  me,  I  suppose," 
thought  Miss  Fearing  as  she  turned  and  shook  hands 
with  George  himself. 

Grace  looked  at  him  quietly  and  pressed  his  hand  with 
unmistakable  cordiality.  Her  husband  shook  hands 
energetically  with  every  one,  inquired  earnestly  how 
each  one  was  doing,  and  then  looked  at  the  river.  He 
felt  rather  uncomfortable,  because  he  knew  that  every 
one  else  did,  but  he  made  110  attempt  to  help  the  diffi 
culty  by  opening  the  conversation.  He  was  not  a  talka 
tive  man.  Totty,  however,  lost  no  time  in  asking  a 
score  of  questions,  to  all  of  which  she  knew  the  answers. 
George  found  himself  seated  between  Constance  and 
Grace. 

"Have  you  been  here  long,  Mr.  Wood?"  Constance 
asked,  turning  her  head  to  George  and  paying  no  atten 
tion  to  Totty 7s  volley  of  inquiries. 

"Since  the  first  of  June,"  George  answered  quietly, 
and  then  relapsed  into  silence,  not  knowing  what  to  say. 
He  was  not  really  so  calm  as  he  appeared  to  be,  and 
the  suddenness  of  the  visit  had  slightly  confused  his 
thoughts. 

"  I  supposed  that  you  were  in  New  York, "  said  Con 
stance,  who  seemed  determined  to  talk  to  him,  and  to 
110  one  else.  "Will  you  not  come  over  and  see  us?" 
she  asked. 


2»»0  THE   THREE    FATES. 

••  I  .shall  l>e  very  happy,"  George  replied,  without 
undue  coldnes.s,  l.ut  without  enthusiasm.  "Shall  you 
stay  through  the  summer'.' " 

"Certainly  —  my  sister  and  John —  .Mr.  liond —  are 
there,  too.  You  see,  it  is  so  dreadfully  hot  in  town, 
and  he  cannot  leave  tin*  ofh'ce,  though  there  is  nothing 
in  the  world  to  do,  I  am  sure.  l»v  the  way,  what  are 
you  doing,  if  one  may  ask'/  I  hope  you  are  writing 
something.  You  know  we  are  all  looking  forward  to 
your  next  book." 

George  could  not  help  glancing  sharply  at  her  fare. 
which  changed  colour  immediately.  Hut  In-  looked 
away  again  as  he  answered  the  question. 

"The  old  story,"  he  said.  "A  love  story.  What  eltt 
should  I  write  about?  There  is  only  one  thing  that  has 
a  permanent  interest  for  the  public,  and  that  is  love." 
He  ended  the  speech  with  a  dry  laugh,  not  good  to  hear. 

"Is  it?"  asked  Constance  with  remarkable  self-pos 
session.  "I  should  think  there  must  \»>  many  other 
subjects  more  interesting  and  far  easier  to  write  upon." 

"Easier,  no  doubt.  I  will  not  question  your  judg 
ment  upon  that  point,  at  least.  More  interesting  to 
certain  writers,  too,  perhaps.  Love  is  so  much  a  matter 
of  taste.  But  more  to  the  liking  of  the  public  —  n.». 
There  1  must  differ  from  you.  The  great  majority  nf 
mankind  love,  are  fully  aware  of  it.  and  enjoy  reading 
about  the  loves  of  others." 

Constance  was  pale  and  evidently  nervous.  She  had 
clearly  determined  to  talk  to  George,  and  he  appeared 
to  re>ent  the  advance  rather  than  otherwise.  Yet  she 
would  not  relinquish  the  attempt.  Kven  in  his  worst 
humour  she  would  rather  talk  with  him  than  with  an\ 

OIM  else.        She   tried    to   meet    hilll   oil   his  OW11   ground. 

"  How  about  friendship'.'"  she  asked.  "Is  not  that  a 
subject  for  a  hook,  as  well  as  love?" 

"Possibly,  with  immense  labour,  one  might  make  a 
l>ook  of  >omc  >ort  about  friendship.  It  would  be  a  vei  \ 
dull  book  to  read,  and  a  man  would  need  to  be  \ei\ 


THE  THREE  FATES.  261 

morbid  to  write  it;  as  for  the  public  it  would  have  to 
undergo  a  surgical  operation  to  be  made  to  accept  it. 
Xo.  I  think  that  friendship  would  make  a  very  poor 
subject  for  a  novelist." 

"  You  do  not  think  very  highly  of  friendship  itself,  it 
seems,"  said  Constance  with  an  attempt  to  laugh. 

"  I  do  not  know  of  any  reason  why  I  should.  I  know 
very  little  in  its  favour." 

"  Opinions  differ  so  much !  "  exclaimed  the  young  girl, 
gaining  courage  gradually.  "I  suppose  you  and  I  have 
not  at  all  the  same  ideas  about  it." 

"Evidently  not." 

"How  would  you  define  friendship?" 

"  I  never  define  things.  It  is  my  business  to  describe 
people,  facts  and  events.  Bond  is  a  lawyer  and  a  man 
of  concise  definitions.  Ask  him." 

"I  prefer  to  talk  to  you,"  said  Constance,  who  had  by 
this  time  overcome  her  sensitive  timidity  and  began  to 
think  that  she  could  revive  something  of  the  old  confi 
dence  in  conversation.  Unfortunately  for  her  intentions, 
Mamie  had  either  overheard  the  last  words,  or  did  not 
like  the  way  things  were  going.  She  rose  and  pushed 
her  light  straw  chair  before  her  with  her  foot  until  it 
was  opposite  the  two. 

"What  do  you  do  with  yourself  all  day  long?''  she 
asked  as  she  sat  down.  "I  am  sure  you  are  giving  my 
cousin  the  most  delightful  accounts  of  your  existence!'1 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  were  talking  of  friendship, " 
said  George,  watching  the  outlines  of  Mamie's  exquisite 
figure  and  mentally  comparing  them  with  Constance's 
less  striking  advantages. 

"How  charming!  "  Mamie  exclaimed  sweetly.  "And 
you  have  always  been  such  good  friends." 

With  a  wicked  intuition  of  the  mischief  she  was  mak 
ing,  Mamie  paused  and  looked  from  the  one  to  the  other. 
Constance  very  nearly  lost  her  temper,  but  George's  dark 
face  betrayed  no  emotion. 

"  The  best  of  friends, "  he  said  calmly.     "  What  do  you 


•J''_  1  HI       I  HKI.I.     I   A  RGB, 

think  of  tliis  quest  inn.  Mamie?  Miss  Fearing  says  she 
tliiuks  that  a  g 1  lunik  miijht  be  written  about  friend 
ship.  I  answered  that  I  thought  it  would  In-  far  from 
popular  with  the  public.  AVhat  do  you  sa\  :  " 

Constance  looked  curiously  at  Mamie,  as  though  sin- 
were  interested  in  her  repl\.  It  seemed  as  though  she 
must  agree  with  one  or  the  other.  Hut  Mamie  was  not 
easily  caught. 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  you  could,  George!  "  ^li«  < -\«  laimed. 
"You  are  so  clever  —  you  could  do  anything.  For 
instance,  why  do  you  not  describe  your  friendship'.' 
You  two,  you  know  you  would  be  sn  nice  in  a  b«,.,k. 
And  besides,  everybody  would  read  it  and  it  could  not 
be  a  failure."  Mamie  smiled  a_r;iin.  as  she  looked  at 
her  two  hearers. 

"I  should  think  Mr.  Wood  might  do  something  in  a 
novel  with  you  as  well  as  with  me,"  said  Contain •« •. 

George  was  not  sure  whether  Mamie  turned  a  shade 
whiter  or  not.  She  was  naturally  pale,  but  it  seemed  to 
him  that  her  grey  eyes  grew  suddenly  dark  and  anui  \ 

"You  might  put  us  both  into  the  same  book,  (leorge," 
she  suggested. 

"Both  as  friends?"  asked  Constance,  raisin^  her  deli- 
eat  ••  eyebrows  a  little,  while  her  n<>M  rils  expanded.  She 
was  thoroughly  angry  by  this  time. 

"Why,  of  course  \n  Mamie  exclaimed  with  an  air  nf 
perfect  innocence.  MYhat  could  y«m  suppose  I  meant'.' 

I  do  not  Sllppn>e  he  would  be  rude  elmu-h  to  fall  ill  1<'\  e 
with  either  of  us  in  a  hunk.  \Vmild  you.  <  taorgft?  ' 

"  In  !>nnk>."  said  (leor^e  cjuietly.  "all  sorts  of  strange 
things  happen." 

Thereupon  he  turned  and  addressed  <iraee.  who  was 
on  the  nther  side  df  him,  and  kept  up  an  animated  cmi- 

it  inn  with  her  throughout  the  remainder  of  the  visit. 

It  seemed  t<.  him  to  be  tl nlv  way    of  breaking    up   an 

extremely  unpleasant  situation  Constance  ua^  grate 
ful  to  him  for  what  he  did.  for  she  felt  that  if  he  had 
to  forget  his  courte>\  even  lor  an  instant  he 


THE    THREE    FATES.  263 

would  have  found  it  easy  to  say  many  things  which 
would  have  wounded  her  cruelly  and  which  would  not 
have  failed  to  please  his  cousin.  George,  on  his  part, 
had  acquired  a  clearer  view  of  the  real  state  of  things. 

"  How  I  hate  her !  "  Mamie  said  to  herself,  when  Con 
stance  was  gone. 

"  What  a  hateful,  spiteful  little  thing  she  is !  "  thought 
Constance  as  she  stepped  into  the  boat. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

George  was  not  altogether  pleased  by  what  had  hap 
pened  during  the  visit.  He  had  expected  that  Constance 
would  be  satisfied  with  exchanging  a  few  words  of  no 
import,  and  that  she  would  make  no  attempt  to  lead 
him  into  conversation.  Instead  of  this,  however,  she 
had  seemed  to  be  doing  her  best  to  make  him  talk,  and 
had  really  been  the  one  to  begin  the  trouble  which  had 
ensued.  If  she  had  not  allowed  herself  to  refer  in  the 
most  direct  manner  to  the  past,  she  would  not  have 
exposed  herself  to  Mamie's  subsequent  attack.  As  for 
Mamie,  though  she  had  successfully  affected  a  look  of 
perfect  innocence,  and  had  spoken  in  the  gentlest  and 
most  friendly  tone  of  voice,  there  was  no  denying  the 
fact  that  her  speeches  had  made  a  visible  impression 
upon  Constance  Fearing.  The  latter  had  done  her  best 
to  control  her  anger,  but  she  had  not  succeeded  in  hid 
ing  it  altogether.  It  was  impossible  not  to  make  a  com 
parison  between  the  two  girls,  and,  on  the  whole,  the 
comparison  was  in  Mamie's  favour,  so  far  as  self-posses 
sion  and  coolness  were  concerned. 

"  You  were  rather  hard  on  Miss  Fearing  yesterday, " 
George  said  on  the  following  morning,  when  they  were 
alone  during  the  quarter  of  an  hour  he  allowed  to  elapse 
between  breakfast  and  going  to  work. 


TIIK    TIIKI.K    KATES. 

"Hard  on  her'.'  What  do  you  mean'.'"  a>ked  Mamie 
with  well-feigned  .surprise. 

"  Why  —  I  mean  \\  hen  you  suggested  that  I  should  put 
you  both  into  a  book  together.  <  Mi.  I  know  what  \", 
are  going  to  say.  Vmi  meant  nothing  by  it.  you  liad  not 
thought  of  what  you  were  going  to  say.  you  would 
not  have  said  anything  disagreeable  1m-  the  »vorld. 
\  .  ertheless  you  said  it,  and  in  the  ealme>t  way,  and 
it  did  just  what  you  exacted  of  it —  it  hurt  her." 

"Well  —  do  you  mind?"  Mamie  inquired,  with  ama/- 
ing  frankness. 

"Yes.  You  made  her  think  that  I  had  been  talk  in;; 
fcO  \  MU  about  her." 

"And  what  harm  is  there  in  that'.'  You  did  talk 
about  her  a  little  a  few  days  ago  —  on  a  « -ertain  evening. 
And,  moreover,  Master  George,  though  you  are  a  great 
man  and  a  very  good  sort  of  man.  and  a  dear,  altogether. 
besides  possessing  the  supreme  advantage  of  being  my 
cousin,  you  cannot  prevent  me  from  hating  your  beloved 
Constance  Fearing  nor  from  hurting  her  as  much  as  T 
possibly  can  whenever  we  meet  —  especially  if  she  sits 
down  beside  you  and  makes  soft  eyes  at  you.  and  tries 
to  get  you  back!  v 

"Do  not  talk  like  that,   Mamie.      I  do  not  like  it." 

Mamie  laughed,  and  showed  her  beautiful  teeth. 
There  was  a  vicious  sparkle  in  her  ej68. 

"  You  want  to  be  taken  bark.  1  sit]. pose,"  she  said. 
"Tell  me  the  truth— do  you  h>ve  her  still'.'" 

(ienrgr  suddenly  caught  her  by  the  two  wrists  and 
held  her  Ix-lure  him.  He  was  annoyed  and  yet  lie  could 
not  help  Ix-ing  amused. 

"Mamie,  \"U  shall  not  say  Mich  thing>!  You  arc  u 
spiteful  as  a  little  wild-cat  .'  " 

"  \iu  I'.'  I  am  glad  of  it  —  and  I  am  not  in  the  h-a-t 
afraid  ot  you.  or  your  big  hands  <>r  \oiir  black  loi •!<•*." 

George  laughed  and  dropped  her  hands  with  a  little 
>hake.  half  angry,  halt  playful. 

"I  really  believe  you  are  not!  v  he  exclaimed. 


THE   THREE    FATES.  265 

"Of  course  not!  Was  she?  Or  were  you  afraid  of 
her?  Which  was  it?  Oh,  how  I  would  have  liked  to 
see  you  together  when  you  were  angry  with  each  other ! 
She  can  be  very  angry,  you  know.  She  was  yesterday. 
She  would  have  liked  to  tear  me  to  pieces  with  those 
long  nails  of  hers.  I  hate  people  who  have  long  nails!  " 

"  You  seem  to  hate  a  great  many  people  this  morning. 
I  wish  you  would  leave  her  alone." 

"Oh,  now  you  are  going  to  be  angry,  too!  But  then, 
it  would  not  matter. " 

"Why  would  it  not  matter?" 

"  Because  I  am  only  Mamie, "  answered  the  girl,  look 
ing  up  affectionately  into  his  face.  "You  never  care 
what  I  say,  do  you?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  about  that, "  George  said.  "  What  do 
you  mean  by  saying  that  you  are  only  Mamie?" 

"Mamie  is  nobody,  you  know.  Mamie  is  only  a 
cousin,  a  little  girl  who  wants  nothing  of  George  but 
toys  and  picture-books,  a  silly  child,  a  foolish,  half 
witted  little  thing  that  cannot  understand  a  great  man 
—  much  less  tease  him.  Can  she?" 

"Mamie  is  a  witch,"  George  answered  with  a  laugh. 
There  was  indeed  something  strangely  bewitching  about 
the  girl.  She  could  say  things  to  him  which  he  would 
not  have  suffered  his  own  sister  to  say  if  he  had  had 
one. 

"I  wish  I  were!  I  wish  I  could  make  wax  dolls,  like 
people,  I  huto,  as  the  witches  used  to  do,  and  stick  pins 
into  their  hearts  and  melt  them  before  the  fire,  little  by 
little." 

"What  has  got  into  your  head  this  morning,  you 
murderous,  revengeful  little  tiling?" 

"There  are  many  things  in  my  head/'  she  answered, 
•suddenly  changing  her  manner,  and  speaking  in  an  oddly 
demure  tone,  with  downcast  eyes  and  folded  hands. 
"  There  are  more  things  in  my  head  than  are  dreamt  of 
in  yours  —  at  least,  I  hope  so." 

"Tell  me  some  of  them." 


266  THE   THREE    FATES. 

"I  dare  do  all  that  become> —  a  proper  little  girl," 
•»aid  Mamie,  laughing,  "  but  not  that." 

"Dear  me!  I  had  iu>  idea  that  you  were  such  a  des 
perate  character." 

"Tell  me.  (ieorge —  it'  you  did  what  I  suggested 
yesterday  and  put  us  both  into  a  hook.  Conny  Fearing 
and  me,  which  would  you  like  hot'.'" 

"I  would  try  and  make  you  like  each  other,  though  I 
do  not  know  exactly  how  I  should  go  ahout  it." 

"That  is  not  an  answer.  It  is  of  no  use  to  1).-  clever 
with  me.  as  I  have  often  told  you.  \Vonld  you  like  me 
better  than  Conny  Fearing?  Ves —  or  no!  Come,  htm 

waiting!      How  slow  you  are." 

"  \Vhich  do  you  want  me  to  say'.'  I  could  do  either  — 
in  a  book,  so  that  it  can  make  no  difference." 

"Oh  —  if  it  would  make  no  difference,  I  do  not  rare 
to  know.  You  need  not  answer  me." 

"All  the  better  tor  me."  said  (Jrnrge  with  a  laugh. 
••  <;,,(>d-bye — I  am  going  to  work.  Think  of  some  easier 
question." 

George  went  away,  wondering  how  it  was  all  going  to 
end.  Mamie  was  certainly  behaving  in  a  very  strange 
way.  Her  conduct  during  the  visit  on  the  previ«>u> 
afternoon  had  been  that  of  a  woman  at  once  angry  and 
jealous,  and  he  himself  had  felt  very  uncomfortable. 
The  extreme  gentleness  of  her  manner  and  expression 
while  speaking  with  <  'onstance  had  not  concealed  her 
real  feelings  from  him.  and  he  had  felt  .something  like 
slianu-  at  b»'ing  obliged  to  sit  quietly  in  his  place  while 
>he  wounded  the  woman  he  once  loved  so  dearly,  and  of 
whom  he  still  thought  so  often.  He  had  done  rv.-ryt  liing 
in  his  power  to  smooth  matters,  but  he  had  not  hern  able 
to  do  much,  and  his  own  humour  had  been  already  rutHed 
by  the  conversation  that  had  gmir  before.  H,-  was 
under  the  iiupivs>i<>u  that  Constance  had  gone  away  feel 
ing  that  he  had  been  gratuitoii>ly  disagreeable,  and  he 
was  sorr\  for  it. 

Before  very  long,  he  had  an  opportunity  of  ascertain- 


THE   THREE   FATES.  267 

ing  what  Constance  felt  and  thought  about  his  doings. 
On  the  afternoon  of  the  Sunday  following  the  one  on 
which  she  had  been  to  the  Trimms',  George  had  crossed 
to  the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  alone,  had  landed  near 
a  thick  clump  of  trees  and  was  comfortably  established 
in  a  shady  spot  on  the  shore  with  a  book  and  a  cigar. 
The  day  was  hot  and  it  was  about  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon.  Mamie  and  her  mother  had  driven  to  the 
neighbouring  church,  for  Totty  was  punctual  in  attending 
to  her  devotions,  whereas  George,  who  had  gone  with 
them  in  the  morning,  considered  that  he  had  done  enough. 

He  was  not  sure  to  whom  the  land  on  which  he  found 
himself  belonged,  and  he  had  some  misgiving  that  it 
might  be  a  part  of  the  Fearing  property.  But  he  had 
been  too  lazy  to  pull  higher  up  the  stream  when  he  had 
once  crossed  it,  and  had  not  cared  to  drop  down  the 
current  as  that  would  have  increased  the  distance  he 
would  have  had  to  row  when  he  went  home.  He  fancied 
that  on  such  a  warm  day  and  at  such  a  comparatively 
early  hour,  none  of  the  Fearings  were  likely  to  be  abroad, 
even  if  he  were  really  in  their  grounds. 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  he  would  have  been  safe 
enough.  It  chanced,  however,  that  Constance  had  been 
unusually  restless  all  day,  and  it  had  occurred  to  her 
that  if  she  could  walk  for  an  hour  or  more  in  her  own 
company  she  would  feel  better.  The  place  where  George 
was  sitting  was  actually  in  her  grounds,  and  she,  know 
ing  it  to  be  a  pretty  spot,  where  there  was  generally  a 
breeze,  had  naturally  turned  towards  it.  He  had  not 
been  where  he  was  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  when 
she  came  upon  him.  He  heard  a  light  step  upon  the 
grass,  and  looking  up,  saw  a  figure  all  in  white  within 
five  paces  of  him.  He  recognised  Constance,  and  sprang 
to  his  feet,  dropping  his  book  and  his  cigar  at  the  same 
moment.  Constance  started  perceptibly,  but  did  not 
draw  back.  George  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  trespassing  here,"  he  said  quickly. 
"  If  so,  pray  forgive  me. " 


TNK    THKKK    FATES. 

"  You   an-   welcome,"  ConftanCti   answered,    recovering 

herself.  "  It  is  one  of  the  prettiest  places  on  tli«-  river." 
she  added  a  moment  later,  resting  her  hands  upon  the 
long  handle  of  her  parasol  and  looking  out  at  tin-  sunny 
water. 

Then-  was  nothing  to  he  done  hut  to  face  an  interview. 
She  could  hardly  turn  her  hark  on  him  and  walk  away 
without  exchanging  a  few  phrases,  and  he.  on  his  part, 
could  not  jump  into  his  hoat  ami  row  lor  his  life  as  though 
he  were  afraid  of  her.  Of  the  two  she  was  the  one  l»eM 

pleased  by  the  accidental  meeting.    To  George's  surprise 

>he  seated  herself  upon  the  -,'rass.  against  the  root  of  one 
of  the  gn-at  old  trees, 

"  \\'ill  you  not  sit  down  again'.'"  >he  asked.  "I  dis 
turbed  you.  I  am  so  >orry." 

••  Not  at  all,''  said  George,  resuming  his  former  attitude. 

''Why  do  you  say  'not  at  all'  in  that  way'.'  Of  course 
I  disturbed  you,  and  I  am  disturbing  you  now.  out  of 
false  politeness,  because  1  am  on  my  own  ground  and 
feel  that  you  are  a  guest." 

She  was  a  little  confused  in  trying  to  be  too  natural, 
ami  George  felt  the  false  mite,  and  was  vaguely  sorry 
for  her.  She  was  much  less  at  her  ea>e  than  he,  and  she 
.showed  it. 

"I  came  here  mit  of  la/.iness."  he  said.  "  It  was  a  bore 
to  pull  that  heavy  boat  any  farther  up.  and  I  did  not 
care  to  lose  way  by  going  farther  down.  I  did  not  feel 
>ure  whether  this  spot  was  \oiu-->  or  not." 

Constance  said  nothing  fora  moment,  but  she  tapped 
the  toe  of  her  shoe  rather  impatiently  with  her  parasol. 

"You  would  not  have  landed  here  if  \  nu  had  thought 
that  there  wa>  a  possibility  of  meeting  me.  would  you'.'" 

The  question  \\as  rather  an  embarrassing  one  and  was 
put  with  great  directness.  It  seemed  \»  GfaorgQ  that  the 
air  was  full  of  such  ijue*tion>  just  now.  He  considered 
that  his  answer  might  entail  serious  coiis.Mpiences  and 
he  hesitated  leveral  MCOndl  before  speaking. 

"  It  seems  to  in.-,"  he  answered  at   last,  "that  although 


THE   THREE   FATES.  269 

I  have  but  little  reason  to  seek  a  meeting  with  you,  I 
have  none  whatever  for  avoiding  one." 

"I  hope  not,  indeed,"  said  Constance,  in  a  low  voice. 
"I  hope  you  will  never  try  to  avoid  me." 

"I  have  never  done  so." 

"  I  think  you  have, "  said  the  young  girl,  not  looking 
at  him.  "  I  think  you  have  been  unkind  in  never  taking 
the  trouble  to  come  and  see  us  during  all  these  months. 
Why  have  you  never  crossed  the  river?" 

"  Did  you  expect  that  after  what  has  passed  between 
us  I  should  continue  to  make  regular  visits?"  George 
spoke  earnestly,  without  raising  or  lowering  his  tone, 
and  waited  for  an  answer.  It  came  with  some  hesita 
tion. 

"I  thought  that  —  after  a  time,  perhaps,  you  would 
come  now  and  then.  I  hoped  so.  I  cannot  see  why  you 
should  not,  I  am  sure.  Are  we  enemies,  you  and  I? 
Are  we  never  to  be  friends  again  ?  " 

"Friendship  is  a  relation  I  do  not  understand,"  George 
answered.  "I  think  I  said  as  much  the  other  day  when 
you  mentioned  the  subject." 

"Yes.  Somebody  interrupted  the  conversation.  I 
think,"  said  Constance,  blushing  a  little,  "that  it  was 
your  cousin.  I  wanted  to  say  several  things  to  you  then, 
but  it  was  impossible  before  all  those  people.  Since  we 
have  met  by  accident,  will  you  listen  to  me?  If  you 
would  rather  not,  please  say  so  and  I  will  go  away.  But 
please  do  not  say  anything  unkind.  I  cannot  bear  it  and 
I  am  very  unhappy." 

There  was  something  simple  and  pathetic  in  her  appeal 
to  his  forbearance,  which  moved  him  a  little. 

"  I  will  do  whatever  you  wish, "  he  said,  in  a  tone  that 
reminded  her  of  other  days.  He  folded  his  hands  upon 
one  knee  and  prepared  to  listen,  looking  out  at  the  broad 
river. 

"  Thank  you.  I  have  longed  for  a  chance  of  saying  it 
to  you,  ever  since  we  last  met  in  New  York.  It  lias 
always  seemed  very  easy  to  say  until  now.  Yes.  It  is 


270  THE   THREE    FATES. 

about  friendship.      Last   Sunday    I    was  trying  to  speak 
of  it,  and  you  were  very  unkind.      Y«»u  laughed  at  me." 

"I  am  sincerely  siin-y,  it  I  did.  I  did  not  know  that 
you  wen-  in  earnest." 

"I  was,  and  I  am.  very  much  in  earnest.  It  is  tin* 
only  thin^  that  can  make  my  lite  worth  living." 

"Friendship?"  asked  (Jeorge  <juietly.  He  meant  to 
keep  liis  word  and  say  nothing  tliat  could  hurt  her. 

"Your  friendship,"  she  answered.  "  r>ecause  I  once 
ma<le  a  great  mistake,  is  there  to  l>e  no  Inrgm-iiess?  I> 
it  impossible  that  we  should  ever  be  good  friend-,  s* 
each  other  often  and  talk  together  as  we  did  in  the  <.ld 
days?  Are  you  always  to  meet  me  with  a  stony  face  and 
hard,  cruel  words?  Was  my  sin  BO  urr(i;it  as  that?" 

••  You  have  not  committed  any  sin.  You  should  not 
use  such  words." 

"Oh,  do  not  find  fault  with  the  way  I  say  it  —  it  i 
hard  to  say  it  at  all!     Try  and  understand  me." 

"I  do  understand  you,  I  think,  but  what  you  propose 
does  not  look  possible  to  me.  There  has  been  that  be 
tween  us  which  makes  it  very  hard  to  try  such  experi 
ments.  Do  you  not  think  so?" 

"It  may  seem  hard,  but  it  is  not  impossible,  it  you 
will  only  try  to  think  more  kindly  of  me.  I  >o  you  know 
what  my  mistake  was  —  where  I  was  most  \\n>nur'.'  It 
was  in  not  telling  you  —  what  I  did  —  a  \ear  tOOfier.  Let 
u^  l.e  linn.-M.  I'.ivak  through  this  veil  there  is  between 
US,  if  it  is  only  for  to-day.  \\'hat  is  formality  t«>  you  or 
me?  You  loved  me  once —  I  could  not  love  you.  Is  that 
a  reax»n  why  you  should  treat  me  like  ;(  >t  ranker  when 
we  meet,  or  why  I  should  pick  and  choose  my  words  with 
you.  as  though  I  feared  \  oil  in-lead  of  —  of  l.einu'  vei-y 
fond  of  you?  Think  it  all  o\er,  even  if  it  pains  you  a. 
little.  You  would  have  dime  anything  tor  m\  >ake  once. 
If  I  had  told  \oii  a  year  earlier  --  as  I  ou-ht  to  have  told 
you  —  that  I  could  never  love  you  enough  to  marry  you, 
would  you  then  have  IM-.-U  so  an-ry  ;m,i  i,;ive  gone  away 
from  me  as  \ou  did'.'  " 


THE   THftEE   FATES. 

"  No.  I  would  not, "  said  George.  "  But  there  was  that 
difference 

"  Wait.  Let  ine  finish  what  I  was  going  to  say.  It 
was  not  what  I  did,  it  was  that  I  did  it  far  too  late.  You 
would  not  have  given  up  coming  to  see  me,  if  it  had  all 
happened  a  year  earlier.  My  fault  lay  in.  putting  it  off 
too  long.  It  was  very  wrong.  I  have  been  very  sorry 
for  it.  There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  for  you  —  I  am 
just  what  I  always  was  in  my  feelings  towards  you  — 
and  more.  Can  I  humiliate  myself  more  than  I  have  done 
before  you?  I  do  not  think  there  are  many  women  who 
\vould  have  done  what  I  have  done,  what  I  am  doing  now. 
Can  I  be  more  humble  still?  Shall  I  confess  it  all 
again?" 

"You  have  done  all  that  a  woman  could  or  should," 
George  said,  and  there  was  no  bitterness  in  his  voice.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  old  Constance  he  had  loved  was 
slowly  entering  into  the  person  of  the  young  girl  before 
him,  whom  he  had  of  late  treated  as  a  stranger  and  who 
had  been  so  really  and  truly  one  in  his  sight. 

"And  yet,  will  you  not  forgive?"  she  asked  in  a  low 
and  supplicating  tone. 

He  gazed  at  the  river  and  did  not  speak.  He  was  not 
conscious  that  she  was  watching  his  face  intently.  She 
saw  no  bitterness  nor  hardness  there,  however,  but  only 
an  expression  of  perplexity.  The  word  forgiveness  did 
not  convey  to  him  half  what  it  meant  to  her.  She  at 
tached  a  meaning  to  it,  which  escaped  him.  She  was 
morbid  and  had  taken  an  unreal  vieAv  of  all  that  had 
happened  between  them.  His  mind  was  strong,  natural 
and  healthy,  and  he  could  not  easily  understand  why  she 
should  lend  such  importance  to  what  he  now  considered 
a  mere  phrase,  no  matter  how  he  had  regarded  it  in  the 
heat  and  anger  of  his  memorable  interview  with  her. 

"  Miss  Fearing  —  "  he  began.  He  hardly  knew  why  be 
called  her  by  name,  unless  it  was  that  he  was  about  to 
make  a  categorical  statement.  So  soon  as  the  syllables 
had  escaped  his  lips,  however,  he  repented  of  having 


'JT'J  INK   IHI;I:K  FA  TKS. 

pronounced  them.  He  ->,i\\  a  shade  of  pain  j>ass  over  her 
face,  and  at  the  same  time  it  seemed  a  childish  way  of 
indicating  the  distance  by  which  they  were  now  sepa 
rated.  It  reminded  him  of  George  the  Third's  "Mr. 
Washington." 

''Constance,"  he  said  after  another  moment's  hesita 
tion,  "we  do  not  speak  in  tlie  same  language.  You  ask 
me  for  my  forgiveness.  What  am  I  to  forgive'/  It  there 
is  anything  to  be  forgiven,  I  forgive  most  fre«-l\ .  I  \\as 
very  angry,  and  therefore  very  foolisli  on  that  day  when 
1  >aid  I  would  not  forgive  vou.  1  am  not  angry  now. 
Wliat  I  feel  is  very  ditTerent.  I  hear  you  no  malice,  I 
wish  you  no  evil." 

Constance  was  silent  and  looked  away.     She  did  not 
understand  him,  though  she  felt  that  he  was  not  speak 
ing  unkindly.      What  he  offered  her  was  not  what  sin- 
wanted. 

"Since  we  have  come  to  the>e  explanations."  George 
continued  after  a  pause,  "  I  will  try  and  tell  you  what  it 
is  that  I  feel.  I  called  you  Miss  Fearing  just  now.  I  >o 
you  know  why?  Uecause  it  seems  more  natural.  You 
are  not  the  same  person  you  once  were,  and  when  I  call 
yon  Constance,  I  fancy  I  am  calling  some  one  else  by  the 
name  of  your  old  self,  of  the  Constance  I  loved,  ami  who 
loved  me  —  a  little." 

"It  is  not  T  who  have  changed,"  .said  the  young  girl, 
looking  down.  "I  am  Constance  still,  and  you  are  my 
best  and  dearest  friend,  though  you  be  ever  so  unkind." 

"A  change  there  is,  and  a  great  one.  I  daresay  it  is 
iu  me.  I  was  never  your  friend,  as  you  understand  the 
word,  and  you  were  mistaken  in  thinking  that  I  was.  [ 
Io\i-d  yon.  That  is  not  friendship." 

"And  now.  Mnce  I  am  another  person  —  not  the  one 
you  loved  —  can  yon  not  be  my  friend  as  well  as  —  as  you 
are  of  othei>'.'  Why  doe-  it  -.,-eiu  so  impossible'.'" 

"  It  is  too  painful  to  l>e  thought  of."  said  George  in  a 
low  voice.  ••  You  are  ton  like  the  other,  and  yet  too  dif- 
ler.-nt." 


THE   THREE    FATES.  273 

Constance  sighed  and  twisted  a  blade  of  grass  round 
her  slender  white  finger.  She  wished  she  knew  how  to 
do  away  with  the  difference  he  felt  so  keenly. 

"Do  you  never  miss  me?"  she  asked  after  a  long  si 
lence. 

"I  miss  the  woman  I  loved,"  George  answered.  "Is 
it  any  satisfaction  to  you  to  know  it?  " 

"Yes,  for  I  am  she." 

There  was  another  pause,  during  which  George  glanced 
at  her  face  from  time  to  time.  It  had  changed,  he 
thought.  It  was  thinner  and  whiter  than  of  old  and 
there  were  shadows  beneath  the  eyes  and  modellings  — 
not  yet  lines  —  of  sadness  about  the  sensitive  mouth. 
He  wondered  whether  she  had  suffered,  and  why.  She 
had  never  loved  him.  Could  it  be  true  that  she  missed 
his  companionship,  his  conversation,  his  friendship,  as 
she  called  it?  If  not,  why  should  her  face  be  altered? 
And  yet  it  was  strange,  too.  He  couldN  not  understand 
how  separation  could  be  painful  where  there  was  no  love. 
Nevertheless  he  was  sorry  that  she  should  have  suffered, 
now  that  his  anger  was  gone. 

"I  am  glad  you  loved  me,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  And  I  am  very  sorry. " 

"  You  should  not  say  that.     If  you  had  not  loved  me 
—  more   than  I  knew  —  you  would   not  have  written, 
you  would  not  be  what  you  are.     Can  you  not  think  of 
it  in  that  way,  sometimes  ?  " 

"  What  shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole  world 
and  lose  his  own  soul?"  said  George  bitterly. 

"You  have  not  lost  your  soul,"  answered  Constance, 
whose  religious  sensibilities  were  a  little  shocked,  at 
once  by  the  strength  of  the  words  as  by  the  fact  of  their 
being  quoted  from  the  Bible.  "  You  have  no  right  to  say 
that.  You  will  some  day  find  a  woman  who  will  love 
you  as  you  deserve " 

"And  whom  I  shall  not  love." 

"  Whom  you  will  love  as  well  as  you  once  loved  me. 
You  will  be  happy,  then.  I  hope  it  may  happen  soon." 


-7-1  i  HI.  THI:I-:K   KA  i  i  >. 

•'  Do  \  •MI'.'  "   asked  ( ienrge,  turning  upon  her  «|uickh  . 
uFor  you?  Bftke  I  hope  ><>,  \vithall  my  heart." 

"  A  Mil    for   \  olll's'.'  " 

'•  I    hope   I    should   lik.-   her   Very    milch."   Said    <  '<  Mist  ailce 

with  a  forced  laugh,  and  looking  away  from  him. 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  not."  Umr^r  answered,  almost 
unconsciously.  The  words  tell  from  liis  li|.>  M  a  ivj.h 
to  her  strained  laughter  which  told  too  plainh  h«-r  r.-a'i 
thoughts. 

''You  should  not  ask  such  <ju«->tion>. "  >h.-  >aid,  a 
moment  later.  "Do  you  find  it  hard  to  talk  to  me?w 
she  aski-d.  suddenly  turning  the  conversation. 

"  I  think  it  would  \><-  hard  for  yon  and  me  to  talk  almut 
these  thin--  i'or  loii.u'." 

"  \Ye  need  not  — if  we  meet.  It  is  Letter  that  \\e 
should  have  said  what  we  had  to  say.  and  we  need  never 
say  it  again.  And  we  shall  meet  more  often,  now.  shall 
we  not?  " 

"Does  it  give  you  pleasure  to  see  me'.'"  There  was  a 
touch  of  hardness  in  the  tone. 

Constance  looked  down  and  the  colour  came  into  her 
thin  face.  Her  voice  trembled  a  little  when  >he  .spoke. 

"Are  you  going  to  be  unkind  to  me  ai^iin1.'  <  h  do  \  mi 
really  wish  to  know'.'" 

"I  am  in  earnest.  Does  it  give  \  ou  ph-asmv  to  Bee 
me?" 

"After  all  1  have  said  —  oh.  (n-orgr.  this  has  Keen  the 
happiest  hour  I  have  spent  >in.-e  the  first  ot  May." 

"Are    you    heartless   or   are   you    imt '.' "   a>ked    <ie. 
almost  tiereely.      "  Do   \  ou    love  me  that  you  .should  eare 
U)   §96    me'/      Or   doe.s    it    amuse    you    to    give    me    pain'.' 
What  are  you.  yourself,  the  real  woman  that    I  i-an  ne\,.| 
understand1.'  " 

Con>tance  was  frightened  l.y  the  siidd«-n  oiitl.ivak  of 
passion,  and  turned  pale. 

"What    are  you    Baying?      What    do  JTOU     mean1.'"   she 

ill  an  uncertain  voi.-,-. 
\\iiat    I    My?      \\'hat    1    iiu-air.'      Do  you   think  it  is 


THE   THREE   EATES.  ^ 

pleasure  to  me  to  talk  as  we  have  been  talking?  Do  you 
suppose  that  my  love  for  you  was  a  mere  name,  an  idea, 
a  thing  without  reality,  to  be  discussed  and  dissected 
and  examined  and  turned  inside  out?  Do  you  fancy  that 
in  three  months  I  have  forgotten,  or  ceased  to  care,  or 
learned  to  talk  of  you  as  though  you  were  a  person  in  a 
book?  What  do  you  think  I  am  made  of?  " 

Constance  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  a  long- 
silence  followed.  She  was  not  crying,  but  she  looked  as 
though  she  were  trying  to  collect  her  thoughts,  and  at 
the  same  time  to  shut  out  some  disagreeable  sight.  At 
last  she  looked  up  and  saw  that  his  lean,  dark  face  was 
full  of  sadness.  She  knew  him  well  and  knew  how  much 
he  must  feel  before  his  features  betrayed  what  was  pass 
ing  in  his  mind. 

"Forgive  me,  George,"  she  said  in  a  beseeching  tone. 
"  I  did  not  know  that  you  loved  —  that  you  cared  for  me 
still." 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  answered  bitterly.    "  It  will  pass." 

Poor  Constance  felt  that  she  had  lost  in  a  moment 
what  she  had  gained  with  so  much  difficulty,  the  renewal 
of  something  like  unconstrained  intercourse.  She  rose 
slowly  from  the  place  where  she  had  been  sitting,  two  or 
three  paces  away  from  him.  He  did  not  rise,  for  he  was 
still  too  much  under  the  influence  of  the  emotion  to  heed 
what  she  did.  She  came  and  stood  before  him  and  looked 
down  into  his  face. 

"George,"  she  said  slowly  and  earnestly,  "I  am  a  very 
unhappy  woman  —  more  unhappy  than  you  can  guess. 
You  are  dearer  to  me  than  anything  on  earth,  and  yet  I 
am  always  hurting  you  and  wounding  you.  This  life  is 
killing  me.  Tell  me  what  you  would  have  me  do  and 
say,  and  I  will  do  it  and  say  it  —  anything  —  do  you 
understand  —  anything  rather  than  be  parted  from  you 
as  I  have  been  during  these  last  months." 

She  meant  every  word  she  said,  and  in  that  moment, 
if  George  had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife  she  would  have 
consented  gladly.  But  he  did  not  understand  that  she 


"276  THK    THl:l.l      !    AT  |-> . 

meant  as  much  as  tliat.  II.-  senm-d  to  hesitate  a  moment 
and  then  ro>e  quickly  to  his  te.-t  and  stood  beside  her. 

"You  must  imt  talk  lik«-  that."  he  said.  "I  owe  yon 
much,  Constance,  very  much,  though  you  liavc  made  me 
very  unhappy.  I  do  not  understand  \  mi.  I  do  not  kn<  \v 
why  you  should  can-  to  set-  me.  Hut  I  will  come  to  ymi 
as  often  us  you  please  if  only  you  will  not  talk  to  me 
about  what  is  past.  Let  us  try  and  speak  of  ordinan 
things,  of  everyday  matters.  I  am  ashamed  to  >e»-m  to 
be  making  conditions,  and  I  do  not  know  what  it  all 
means.  l>ecause,  as  I  have  said.  I  cannot  understand  you, 
and  1  never  shall.  \Yill  you  have  me  on  those  terms?" 

He  held  out  his  hand  as  he  spoke  the  last  words,  and 
there  was  a  kindly  smile  on  his  face. 

"Come  when  you  will  and  as  you  will  —  only  come!  " 
said  Constance,  her  face  lighting  up  with  gladness.  She. 
at  least,  was  satisfied,  and  saw  a  prospect  of  happine» 
in  the  future.  "Come  here  sometimes,  in  the  afternoon. 
it  will  be  like " 

She  was  -oin^  to  say  that  it  would  be  like  the  old 
time  when  they  used  to  meet  in  the  I'ark. 

"It  will  l>e  like  a  sort  of  picnic,  you  know,"  were  the 
words  that  fell  from  her  lips.  P.ut  the  Mush  on  her  face 
told  plainly  enough  that  she  had  meant  to  say  >om.-t  Inn- 

else. 

"  Yes,"  said  George  with  a  ^rim  smile.  ••  it  will  be  like 
a  s«,rt  of  picnic.  Good-bye." 

"  ( inod-by»*  —  when  will  you  COme?  "  <  'mi.staiice  could 
not  help  letting  her  hand  linger  in  his  as  loiiur  as  he 
\\duld  hold  it. 

••Next  Sunday."  < Jeorge  answered  quickly.  He  iv- 
tiect«-d  that  it  would  not  be  easy  to  ex-ape  Mamie  on  ;in\ 
other  da\  . 

A  moment  later  he  was  in  his  boat,  pulling  away  into 
the  midstream.  ( 'oiistam-c  stood  on  the  shore  watching 
him  and  wishing  with  all  her  heart  that  she  weiv  sitting 
in  the  stern  of  the  neat  craft,  wishing  more  than  all  that 
he  might  desire  her  pivs.-nrc  there.  Hut  he  did  not. 


THE  THREE   FATES.  277 

He  knew  very  well  that  he  could,  have  stayed  another 
hour  or  two  in  her  company  if  he  had  chosen  to  do  so, 
but  he  had  been  glad  to  escape,  and  he  knew  it.  The 
meeting  had  been  painful  to  him  in  many  ways,  and  it 
had  made  him  dissatisfied  and  disappointed  with  him 
self.  It  had  shown  him  what  he  had  not  known,  that 
he  loved  the  old  Constance  as  dearly  as  ever,  though  he 
could  not  always  recognise  her  in  the  strange  girl  who 
did  not  love  him  but  who  assured  him  that  her  separa 
tion  from  him  was  killing  her.  He  had  hoped  and 
almost  believed  that  he  should  never  again  feel  an  emo 
tion  in  her  presence,  and  yet  he  had  felt  many  during 
that  afternoon.  Nor  did  he  anticipate  with  any  pleasure 
a  renewal  of  the  situation  on  the  following  Sunday, 
though  he  was  quite  sure  that  he  had  no  means  of  avoid 
ing  it.  If  he  had  thought  that  Constance  was  merely 
making  a  heartless  attempt  to  renew  the  old  relations, 
he  would  have  given  her  a  sharp  and  decisive  refusal. 
I  >ut  she  was  undoubtedly  in  earnest  and  she  was  evidently 
suffering.  She  had  gone  to  the  length  of  reminding  him 
that  he  owed  the  beginning  of  his  literary  career  to  her 
influence.  It  was  true,  and  he  would  not  be  ungrateful. 
Courtesy  and  honour  alike  forbade  ingratitude,  and  he 
only  hoped  that  he  might  become  accustomed  to  the  pain 
of  such  meetings. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

When  George  met  Mamie  on  that  evening,  he  hoped 
that  she  would  ask  no  questions  as  to  the  way  in  which 
he  had  employed  his  afternoon,  for  he  knew  that  if  she 
discovered  that  he  had  been  with  Constance  Fearing  she 
would  in  all  probability  make  some  disagreeable  observa 
tions  about  the  latter,  of  a  kind  which  he  did  not  wish 
to  hear.  Without  having  defined  the  situation  in  his 
own  mind,  he  felt  that  Mamie  was  jealous  of  Constance 


278  i  H  I.    I  HI;  1. 1.    i   \  i  I.-. 

and  would  slm\v  it  mi  every  occasion.  As  a  general  rule 
-he  folio wed  her  mother's  advice  and  asked  liim  no 
ijucstions  when  he  liad  lieeii  iint  alone.  I'.nt  this  even 
ing  her  curiosity  was  aroused  by  an  almost  impercept  ible 
change  in  his  manner.  His  face  was  a  shade  darker. 
his  voice  a  shade  mure  grave  than  usual.  After  din 
ner,  Totty  stayed  in  the  drawing-room  to  write  letters 
and  left  the  two  together  upon  the  verandah.  It  was 
very  dark  and  they  sat  near  each  other  in  low  straw 
<•  hairs. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  with  yOOXWlf? M  .Mamie 
asked,  almost  as  .soon  a*  they  were  alone. 

"  Some  thing  thai  will  surprise  yon."  George  a  n>  we  red. 

"I  have  IMM-II  with   Miss  Fearing." 

He  hud  no  intention  of  concealing  the  fact,  for  he  saw 
that  such  a  course  would  be  foolish  in  the  extreme.  He 
meant  to  go  and  see  Constance  again,  as  he  had  promised 
her,  and  he  saw  that  it  would  be  tolly  to  give  a  dandes- 
tine  appearance  to  their  meet  ings. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Mamie,  "that  accounts  for  it  all!" 
He  could  not  see  her  face  d ist inetly,  but  her  tone  told 
him  that  she  was  smiling  to  herself. 

"Accounts  for  what?  "    he   asked. 

"Fora  great  many  things.  For  your  Mack  looks  and 
your  gloomy  view  of  the  dinner,  and  your  general  nns.i- 
ciability." 

"I  do  not  feel  in  the  least  gloomy  or  unsociable." 
:-ge  said  drily.  "  You  have  too  much  imagination." 

"  Why  did  you  go  to  B66  her'.'  " 

"  I  did  not.  I  landed  mi  their  place  without  knowing 
it.  and  when  I  had  hern  t  here  a  <piarter  of  an  hour.  Mi» 
Fearing  Middrnly  appeared  upon  the  scene.  I-  iheiv 
anything  rise  you  would  likr  to  know'.'" 

"Now  you  are  an-jry  !  "  Mamie  exclaimed.  "Of 
course.  I  knew  you  would  Ue.  That  shows  that  your 
conversation  with  Coiiny  was  either  very  pleasant  or 
\.-iy  di>a-iceal»le.  I  am  not  naturally  curious,  but  1 
would  like  to  know  what  yon  talked  alnmt!'' 


THE    THREE    FATES.  279 

"  Would  you?  "  George  laughed  a  little  roughly.  "  We 
did  not  talk  of  you  —  why  should  you  want  to  know?" 

"Oh,  that  mine  enemy  would  write  a  book!"  Mamie 
exclaimed,  "  and  put  into  it  an  accurate  report  of  your 
conversations,  and  send  it  to  me  to  be  criticised. " 

"Why  are  you  so  vicious?  Let  Miss  Fearing  alone, 
if  you  do  not  like  her.  She  has  done  you  no  harm,  and 
there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  call  her  your  enemy, 
and  quote  the  Bible  against  her." 

"  I  hate  to  hear  you  call  her  Miss  Fearing.  I  know 
you  call  her  Constance  when  you  are  alone  with  her." 

"  Mamie,  you  are  a  privileged  person,  but  you  some 
times  go  too  far.  It  is  of  no  consequence  what  I  call 
her.  Let  us  drop  the  subject  and  talk  of  something  else, 
unless  you  will  speak  of  her  reasonably  and  quietly." 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  go  with  you  when  you  make 
your  next  visit?  " 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  if  you  will,  provided  that  you 
will  behave  yourself  like  a  sensible  creature." 

"As  I  did  the  other  day,  when  she  was  here?  Is  that 
the  way?  "  Mamie  laughed. 

"  Xo.     You  behaved  abominably  — 

"And  she  has  been  complaining  to  you,  and  that  is  the 
reason  why  you  are  lecturing  me,  and  making  the  night 
hideous  with  your  highly  moral  and  excellent  advice. 
Give  it  up,  George.  It  is  of  no  use.  I  am  bad  by  nature." 

George  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes.  It  was  clear 
that  if  he  meant  to  see  Constance  from  time  to  time  in 
future  matters  must  be  established  upon  a,  permanent 
basis  of  some  sort. 

" Mamie,"  he  said  at  last,  "  let  us  be  serious.  Are  you 
really  as  fond  of  me  as  you  seem  to  be?  Will  you  do 
something,  not  to  please  me,  but  to  help  me?" 

"  Provided  it  is  easy  and  I  like  to  do  it !  "  Mamie 
laughed.  "  Of  course  I  will,  George, "  she  added  a 
moment  later  in  a  serious  tone. 

"Very  well.  It  is  this.  Forget,  or  pretend  to  forget, 
that  there  is  such  a  person  as  Miss  Fearing  in  the  world. 


280  i  MI    THKKI: 


gQ  and  See  her  and  }»>  as  good   ;m.l   charming  as 

know    how    to   1>C." 

'•  You  give  me  my  choice'.'      I  may  do  eit  her'.'  " 
"  It  will  help  in.-  it  you  will  do  either.       I  cannot    hear 
her  spoken  of  unkindly,  ami  I  cannot   see  her  treated  a> 
you  treated  lier  the  other  day.  without  the  .shadow  of  a 
cause." 

"I  think  there  is  cause  enough.  considering  how  she 
treated  you.  Oh,  yes,  I  know  what  you  will  say  —  that 
there  nerer  waa  any  engagement,  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 

It  is  Very  honourable  of  you.  and  I  admin-  \oii  mm 
much  for  putting  it  in  that  way.  I'.ut  we  all  knew,  and 
it  is  of  no  use  to  deny  it.  you  know." 

"  You     do    lict      U-lieVe     me1.'        I     give    you     my     Word    of 

honour  that  there  was  no  engagement.  Do  y«»u  under- 
>tand?  I  made  a  fool  of  myself,  and  when  I  came  to 
put  the  question  1  was  disappointed.  She  was  as  her 
to  refuse  me  as  you  are  now.  it  I  asked  you  to  marrv 
me.  Is  that  clear?  " 

"Perfectly,"  said  Mamie  in  a  rat  IHT  unnatural  tone. 
"Since  you  give  me  your  word,  it  is  a  different  thing. 
I  have  been  mistaken.  I  am  very  .sorry." 

"  And  will  you  do  what    I  ask'.'  " 

"If  you  give  me  my  choice.  1  will  go  and  see  her 
t"-moiTow.  I  will  do  it  to  please  you  —  though  I  do  not 
understand  how  it  can  help  you." 

"It  will,   nevertheless,  and  J  shall  l»e  grateful  to  \ou." 

The  result  of  this  conversation  \\a>  that   Mamie  actu 

ally  eroded  the  river  on  the  following  da\  and  spent  an 
hour  with  <'<>nMance  Fearing  to  the  great  surprise  of  the 
latter.  .^jM-cially  when  she  >aw  that  her  visitor  wa> 

determined    to   l>e    a-41'eealile.    as    though     to    efface    the    iln- 

|>re»ion  she  had  made  a  lew  da\s  earlier.  Mamie  was 
very  careful  to  sav  nothing  in  the  least  pointed,  nor  any 
thing  which  could  In*  construed  as  an  allusion  to  (ieorge. 
Tott\  >a\v  and  wondered,  l.ut  said  nothing.  She  suji- 
that  Mamie  had  made  the  vi>it  because  G^Otge 
had  .i-ked  hei  to.  and  sin-  was  well  satisfied  that  (',  .....  -•• 


THE   THREE   FATES.  281 

should  take  the  position  of  asking  Mamie  to  do  anything 
for  him.  That  sort  of  thing,  she  said  to  herself,  helps 
on  a  flirtation  wonderfully. 

As  for  George  he  did  not  look  forward  to  his  next 
meeting  with  Constance  with  any  kind  of  pleasur?. 
It  was  distinctly  disagreeable,  and  he  wished  that  some 
thing  might  happen  to  prevent  it.  He  did  not  know 
whether  Constance  would  tell  Grace  of  his  coming,  but 
it  struck  him  that  he  would  not  like  to  be  surprised  by 
Grace  when  he  was  sitting  under  the  trees  with  her 
sister.  Grace  would  assuredly  not  understand  why  he 
was  there,  and  he  would  be  placed  in  a  very  false  posi 
tion. 

So  far,  he  was  right.  Constance  had  not  mentioned 
her  meeting  with  George  to  any  one,  and  had  no  inten 
tion  of  doing  so.  She,  like  George,  said  to  herself  that 
Grace  would  not  understand,  and  it  seemed  wisest  not  to 
give  her  understanding  a  chance.  Of  late  George  had 
been  rarely  mentioned,  and  there  was  a  tendency  to 
coldness  between  the  sisters  if  his  name  was  spoken, 
even  accidentally.  .  Constance  had  at  first  been  grateful 
for  the  other's  readiness  to  help  her  on  the  memorable 
first  of  May,  but  as  time  went  on,  she  began  to  feel  that 
Grace  was  in  some  way  responsible  for  her  imhappiness 
and  she  resented  any  allusion  to  the  past.  Fortunately, 
Grace  was  very  much  occupied  with  her  own  existence 
at  that  time  and  was  little  inclined  to  find  fault  witli 
other  people's  views  of  life.  She  had  married  the  man 
si  10  loved,  and  who  loved  her,  for  whom  she  had  waited 
long,  and  of  whom  she  was  immensely  proud.  He  was 
exactly  suited  to  her  taste  and  represented  her  ideal  of 
man  in  every  way.  She  would  rather  talk  of  him  than 
of  George  Wood,  and  she  preferred  his  company  to  her 
sister's  when  he  was  at  home.  They  were  a  couple 
whose  happiness  would  have  become  proverbial  if  it  had 
been  allowed  to  continue ;  one  of  those  couples  who  are 
not  interesting  but  to  watch  whom  is  a  satisfaction,  and 
whom  it  is  always  pleasant  to  meet.  There  was  just  the 


282  mi:  THKKK  FATES. 

right  difference  ofag*  between  them,  there  was  ju>t  tho 
ri^lit  difference  in  height,  tin-  proper  contrast  in  com 
plexion,  both  liad  much  the  same  tastes,  both  were  very 
inucli  in  earnest,  very  sensible,  and  very  faithful.  It 
was  to  be  Ion-seen  that  in  tin-  course  «.t  \ears  they  would 
;_:row  more  and  more  alike,  and  perhaps  more  and  more 
prejudiced  in  favour  of  their  own  wa\  of  looking  at 
tilings,  that  they  would  have  s«Misil»le,  i^ood-  looking 
ehildren.  who  would  do  all  those  tiling  which  they  ou.^lit 
to  do  and  rejoice  their  parents'  hearts,  in  >h<>rt  that  they 
would  lead  a  peaceful  and  harmonious  life  and  he  in 
every  way  an  honour  to  their  principles  and  a  model  to 
all  young  couples  yet  unmarried.  They  were  people  to 
whom  nothing  unusual  would  ever  happen,  people  who. 
if  they  had  had  the  opportunity  to  invent  gunpowder, 
would  have  held  a  matrimonial  consultation  upon  tin- 
matter  and  WOUld  have  decided  that  explosives  should 

be  avoided  with  oare,  ami  had  better  not  lie  invented  at 
all.  Since  their  marriage  they  had  both  been  less  in 
sympathy  with  Constance  than  before,  and  the  latter  was 
beginning  to  suspect  that  it  would  not  be  wise  for  them 
to  live  together  when  they  returned  to  town.  She  was 
in  some  doubt,  however,  about  making  any  definite 
arrangements.  The  elderly  female  relation  who  had 
been  a  companion  and  a  chaperon  to  the  two  young  girls. 
was  on  her  hands,  and  had  be^un  to  .show  signs  of  turn 
ing  into  an  invalid.  It  was  impossible  to  turn  her  adrift, 
thou-h  she  was  manifestly  in  the  way  at  prevent,  and 

Vet     if    ('oll.staiiee    decided     to     live     by     herself,     the     ur""d 

lady  was  not  the  ><,-t  of  person  she  needed.  She  ^av«-  a 
good  deal  of  thought  to  the  matter,  and  turned  it  over  in 
every  way.  little  Mispeft  in.u  that  an  event  was  about  to 
occur  which  would  render  all  such  arrangements  futile. 
On  the  Sunday  afternoon  agreed  upon.  (Jeor^e  <_rot  into 
the  boat  alone  and  pulled  away  into  the  stream  without 
offering  any  explanation  of  his  departure  to  Mrs.  Trimm 
or  to  Mamie.  He  took  it  for  granted  that  they  intended 
to  go  to  church  as  usual  and  that  he  would  not  be  missed. 


THE   THREE   FATES.  283 

Moreover,  he  owed  no  account  of  his  doings  to  any  one, 
as  he  said  to  himself,  and  would  assuredly  give  none. 
He  started  at  an  early  hour,  but  was  surprised  to  see 
that  Constance  was  at  the  place  of  meeting  before  him. 
As  he  glanced  over  his  shoulder  to  see  that  he  was  row 
ing  for  the  right  point,  he  caught  sight  of  her  white 
serge  dress  beneath  the  trees. 

"  T  have  been  watching  you  ever  since  you  started,"  she 
said,  holding  out  her  hand  to  him.  "  Why  do  you  always 
row  instead  of  sailing?  There  is  a  good  breeze,  too." 

"There  are  two  reasons,"  he  answered.  "In  the  first 
place,  the  Trimms  have  no  sail-boat,  and  secondly,  if 
they  had,  I  should  not  know  how  to  manage  it. " 

"  My  brother-in-law  and  Grace  are  out.  Do  you  see 
their  boat  off  there?  Just  under  the  bluff.  They  said 
they  would  probably  go  to  your  cousin's  a  little  later. 
And  now  sit  down.  Do  you  know?  I  was  afraid  you 
would  not  come,  until  I  saw  your  boat." 

"What  made  you  think  that?  Did  I  not  promise  that 
I  would  come?" 

"  Yes  —  I  know.  But  I  was  afraid  something  would 
happen  to  prevent  you  —  and  then,  when  one  looks  for 
ward  to  something  for  a  whole  week,  it  so  often  does  not 
happen." 

"That  is  true.  But  then,  presentiments  are  always 
wrong.  What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  all  the 
week?"  George  asked,  feeling  that  since  he  had  come  so 
far,  it  was  incumbent  upon  him  to  try  and  make  conver 
sation. 

"  Not  much.  I  had  one  surprise  —  your  cousin  Mamie 
came  over  on  Tuesday  and  made  a  long  visit.  I  had 
not  expected  her,  I  confess,  but  she  was  in  very  good 
spirits  and  talked  charmingly." 

"  She  is  a  very  nice  girl, "  said  George  indifferently. 

"  Of  course  —  I  know.  But  when  we  were  all  over 
there  the  other  day  I  thought  —  "  she  stopped  suddenly 
and  looked  at  George.  "Is  it  forbidden  ground?"  she 
asked,  with  a  slight  change  of  colour. 


284  THE    THREK    KATES. 

'•What?  Mamie'.'  No.  Why  should  we  not  talk 
about  her?" 

"Well —  I  fancied  >he  did  not  like  me.  She  said  ono 
or  two  tilings  that  I  thought  were  meant  to  hurl  me. 
They  did,  too.  I  suppose  I  am  very  >m>itivr.  After 
all,  she  looked  perfectly  innocent,  and  probably  meant 
nothing  by  it." 

"She  often  says  foolish  things  which  she  does  not 
mean,"  said  George  reflectively.  "Hut  .she  is  a  verv 
good  girl,  all  the  same.  You  say  >he  was  agreeable  tin- 
other  day  —  what  did  you  talk  about?  " 

"She  raved  about  you,"  said  <  '<>iiMaii< ••-.  "She  is  a 
great  admirer  of  yours.  Did  you  know  it '.'  " 

"  I  know  she  likes  me,"  <  leorge  answered  coolly.  "  Her 
mother  is  a  very  old  friend  of  mine  and  has  been  \.r\ 
kind  to  me.  She  saw  that  I  was  worn  out  with  work. 
and  insisted  upon  my  spending  the  summer  with  them. 
as  Sherry  Trimm  is  abroad  and  they  had  no  man  in  the 
house.  So  Mamie  came  over  here  to  sing  mv  praises. 
did  she?" 

"Yes,  and  she  sang  them  very  well.  She  is  so  en 
thusiastic —  it  is  a  pleasure  to  listen  to  her." 

"  I  should  think  you  would  find  t  hat  sort  of  tiling  rather 
fatiguing,"  said  George  with  a  smile. 

"  Strange  to  say  I  did  not.  I  could  bear  a  great  deal 
of  it  without  being  in  the  l.-a>t  tired.  l»ut.  as  I  told  yon. 
I  was  surprised  by  her  vi>it.  1 )..  you  know  what  I 
thought?  I  thought  that  you  had  made  her  eoine  and  be 
nice,  because  you  had  seen  that  I  had  been  annoyed  \vlu-n 
we  uere  over  there.  It  would  have  been  so  like  you." 

"\Vould  it'.'  If  L  had  done  what  you  suppose.  I  would 
not  tell  you  and  I  am  very  glad  she  came.  I  wi>h  you 
knew  each  other  better,  ami  liked  each  other." 

'•  \Ve  can.  it'  you  would  be  glad."  >aid  Constance.  "1 
could  go  over  then-  and  a^k  her  here,  and  see  a  great 
deal  of  her,  and  I  could  make  her  like  me.  I  will  if  you 
wish  it." 

"Why    ^hould     I     put     \on    to   so   much   trouble,    for  a 

matter  of  >o  little  Importance?' 


THE   THREE   FATES. 

"  It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  do  anything  for  you, "  an 
swered  the  young  girl  simply.  "I  wish  I  might." 

George  looked  at  her  gravely  and  saw  that  she  was  very 
much  in  earnest.  The  readiness  with  which  she  offered 
to  put  herself  to  any  amount  of  inconvenience  at  the 
slightest  hint  from  him,  proved  she  was  looking  out  for 
some  occasion  of  proving  her  friendship. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Constance, "  he  said  gently.  "  I 
thank  you  very  much." 

A  silence  followed,  broken  only  by  the  singing  of  the 
wind  in  the  old  trees.  The  sky  was  overcast  and  there 
were  light  squalls  on  the  water.  Presently  George  began 
to  talk  again  and  an  hour  passed  quickly  away,  far  more 
quickly  and  pleasantly  than  he  had  believed  possible. 
They  had  many  thoughts  and  ideas  in  common,  and  the 
first  constraint  being  removed  it  was  impossible  that 
they  should  be  long  together  without  talking  freely. 

"  Why  not  kill  him?  "  said  Constance  in  a  critical  tone. 
"It  would  solve  many  difficulties,  and  after  all  you  do 
not  want  him  any  more." 

They  were  talking  of  the  book  he  was  now  writing. 
Insensibly  they  had  approached  the  subject,  and  being 
once  near  it,  George  had  not  resisted  the  temptation  to 
tell  her  the  story. 

"  It  would  be  so  easy, "  she  continued.  "  Take  him  out 
in  a  boat  and  upset  him,  you  know.  They  say  drowning 
is  a  pleasant  death.  A  boat  like  my  brother-in-law's  — 
there  it  is.  Do  you  see?  " 

Grace  and  her  husband  had  been  across  to  see  Totty 
and  were  returning.  The  breeze  was  uncertain,  and 
from  time  to  time  the  boat  lay  over  in  a  way  that  looked 
dangerous. 

"  Murder  and  sudden  death !  "  said  George  with  a  light 
laugh.  "Do  you  not  think  it  would  be  more  artistic  to 
let  him  live?  When  I  was  a  starving  critic,  that  was  one 
of  my  favourite  attacks.  At  this  point  the  author,  for 
reasons  doubtless  known  to  himself,  unexpectedly  drowns 
his  hero,  and  what  might  have  proved  a  very  fair  story 


286  THE    THREE    FATES. 

is  brought  to  an  abrupt  close.  You  know  the  style.  T 
used  to  do  it  verv  well.  Do  you  not  think  they  will  say 
that?  " 

"  What   dues  it    matter'.'     IJrside.N.  it  is  only  ;i  sugges 
tion,  and  tliis  particular  man    is   not    tin-   hem.      I    i, 
]ik«-d  him  from  the  beginning,  and  I  should   he   glad  if 
he  were  brought  to  an  awful  end!  " 

" How  heartless !  Hut  he  is  not  so  bad  as  you  think. 
I  never  could  tell  a  story  well  in  this  way.  and  you  have 
not  read  the  book.  Ky  Jove!  I  believe  they  have 
brought  over  Mamie  and  her  mother.  There  are  a  lot 
of  people  in  the  lx>at." 

He  was  watching  the  little  craft  rather  anxiously.  It 
struck  him  that  In-  would  rather  not  lie  found  sitting 
under  the  trees  with  Constance.  by  that  particular  party 

of  people. 

"You  do  not  think  they  will  come  here,  do  you'.' "  he 
asked,  turning  to  his  companion.  Ft  seemed  almost  as 
natural  as  formerly  that  they  should  agree  in  not  wishing 
to  be  interrupted  by  Grace,  nor  by  any  one  else. 

"Oh  no!  "  Constance  answered.  "They  will  not  come 
here.  The  buoy  is  anchored  opp<»>ite  the  landing,  mucli 
farther  down,  and  John  could  not  m..m-  her  to  the  shore. 
It  is  odd,  though,  that  lie  should  l>e  running  so  tree.  He 
is  losing  way  by  coming  towards  us." 

"  I  am  sure  they  have  >een  us  and  mean  to  land  here. " 
said  George  in  a  tone  that  betrayed  his  annoyance. 

!>oth  watched  the  little  boat  in  silence  for  some  minute-. 

"  Vou  are  right,"  Constance  *aid  at  laM.  "Th«'\  are 
eomiiig  here.  It  is  of  no  use  to  run  away."  she  added, 
quite  naturally.  "They  must  have  seen  my  white  I'ro.-k 
long  agO.  Yes,  here  they  are." 

I'.y  this  time  the  l»oat  was  le>s  than  twenty  yards  from 
the  >hore  and  within  sjieaking  distance.  She  was  a  small, 
light  cr;itt.  half-decked,  and  rigged  as  a  .-utter.  .lohn 
I'lind  was  steering  and  the  three  ladies  were  seated  in 
the  middle.  John  let  her  head  come  to  the  wind  and 
sang  out  — 


THE   THKEE    FATES. 

"Wood!  I  say!" 

"  Hullo !  "  George  answered,  springing  to  his  feet  and 
advancing  to  the  edge  of  the  land. 

"Can  you  take  the  ladies  ashore  in  your  boat?  " 

"  All  right !  "  George  sprang  into  the  light  wherry, 
taking  the  painter  with  him,  and  pulled  alongside  of  the 
party.  In  a  moment  the  three  ladies  were  over  the  side 
and  crowded  together  in  the  stern. 

"  You  will  meet  us  at  the  house,  dear,  won't  you?" 
said  Grace  to  her  husband  just  as  George  was  turning  his 
boat  to  row  back. 

"Yes,  as  soon  as  I  can  take  her  to  her  moorings," 
answered  John,  who  was  holding  the  helm  up  with  one 
hand  and  loosening  the  sheet  with  the  other. 

As  George  rowed  towards  the  land  he  faced  the  river 
and  saw  what  happened.  The  three  ladies  were  all 
looking  in  the  opposite  direction.  The  little  cutter's 
head  went  round,  slowly  at  first,  and  then  more  quickly 
as  the  wind  filled  the  sail.  At  that  moment  a  sharp 
squall  swept  over  the  water.  George  could  see  that  John 
was  trying  to  let  the  sheet  go,  but  the  rope  was  jammed 
and  the  sail  remained  close  hauled,  as  it  had  been  when 
he  made  the  boat  lie  to.  She  had  little  ballast  in  her, 
and  the  weight  of  the  ladies  being  out  of  her,  left  her  far 
too  light.  George  was  not  a  practical  sailor,  and  he 
turned  pale  as  he  saw  the  cutter  lie  over  upon  her  side, 
though  he  supposed  it  might  not  be  as  dangerous  as  it 
looked.  A  moment  later  he  stopped  rowing.  The  little 
vessel  had  capsized  and  was  floating  bottom  upwards. 
John  Bond  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"  Can  your  husband  swim?  "  he  asked  quickly  of  Grace. 
She  started  violently  as  she  saw  the  look  on  his  face, 
turned,  caught  sight  of  the  sail-boat's  keel  and  then 
screamed. 

"Save  him!     Save  him!  "  she  cried  in  agony. 

"  Take  the  sculls,  Mamie !  "  cried  George  as  he  sprang 
over  the  side  into  the  river.  He  had  not  even  thrown 
oft'  his  shoes  or  his  flannel  jacket. 


THK    FBBMB    i   \  i  i.> 

George  had  calculated  that  In-  could  reach  the  place 
uhere  the  accident  h;ul  occurred  much  sooner  by  swim- 
111  ing  than  in  the  boat,  which  was  long  and  narrow  and 
needed  some  time  to  turn,  and  which  moreover  was  m<>\  - 
ing  in  the  opposite  direction.  He  was  a  first -rate  swim 
mer  and  diver  and  trusted  to  his  strength  tn  meivome 
the  disadvantage  he  was  under  in  being  dressed.  In  ;i 
few  seconds  he  had  reached  tlie  cutter.  John  limnl  \\  i> 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  Without  hesitation  he  drew  a  long 
breath  and  dived  under  the  boat.  Tin-  unfortunate  man 
had  become  entangled  in  the  ropes  and  was  under  Tin- 
vessel,  struggling  desperately  to  free  himself.  Cieorge 
laid  hold  of  him  just  as  he  was  making  his.  last  convul 
sive  effort.  But  it  was  too  late.  The  wet  sail  and  the 
slack  of  the  sheet  had  somehow  fastened  themselves 
about  him.  He  grasped  the  arm  with  which  George  tried 
to  help  him,  and  his  grip  was  like  a  steel  vice,  for  John 
Bond  was  a  very  strong  man  and  he  was  in  his  death 
agony.  George  now  struggled  for  his  own  life,  trying 
to  free  himself  from  the  death  clasp  that  held  him.  mak 
ing  desperate  efforts  to  get  his  head  under  the  side  of  tin- 
boat  in  order  to  breathe  the  air.  F>ut  he  could  not  loosen 
the  dead  man's  iron  hold.  The  effort  to  hold  his  breath 
could  go  no  further,  he  opened  his  mouth,  and  made  as 
though  lie  were  breathing,  taking  the  cool  fresh  water 
into  his  lungs,  while  still  exerting  his  utmost  >nvngtli 
to  get  free.  Then  a  delicious  dreamy  sleep  seemed  to 
come  over  him  and  he  lost  conscioiisn. 

Mamie  Trimm  showed  admirable  B6lf~pOM688ioiL  She 
brought  her  mother  and  (Iracr  ashmv  in  spite  of  their 
crirs  and  entreaties,  tor  she  knew  that  they  could  do 
nothing,  and  she  hrrself  did  not  believe  at  tir>t  that  an\  - 
thing  serious  had  h:ip|M-ned,  and  told  them  so  as  calmly 

lie  could.  She  knew  that  (ieorge  was  an  admirable 
swimmer  and  she  had  no  fear  fm-  him.  though  as  she 

lied  the  land  >he  saw  him  dive  under  the  cap>i/ed 
boat.  He  would  reappear  in  thirty  seconds  at  the  m..>t. 
mid  would  probably  bring  .John  I '.mid  up  \\ith  him.  She 


THE   THREE   FATES.  289 

had  great  difficulty  in  making  Grace  go  ashore,  however, 
and  without  her  mother's  assistance  she  would  have 
found  it  altogether  impossible.  The  four  women  stood 
near  together  straining  their  sight,  when  nothing  was  to 
be  seen.  The  struggles  of  the  two  men  moved  the  light 
hull  of  the  cutter  during  several  seconds  and  then  all  was 
quiet. 

With  parted  lips  and  blanched  cheeks  Constance  Fear 
ing  stared  at  the  water,  leaning  against  the  tree  that  was 
nearest  to  the  edge.  Grace  would  have  fallen  to  the 
ground  if  Mrs.  Trimm  had  not  held  her  arms  about 
her.  Mamie  stood  motionless  and  white,  expecting  every 
moment  to  see  George's  dark  head  rise  to  the  surface, 
believing  that  he  could  not  be  drowned. 

At  that  moment  a  third  boat,  rowed  by  four  strong 
pairs  of  arms  shot  past  the  wooded  point  at  a  tremendous 
speed,  the  water  flying  to  right  and  left  of  the  sharp 
prow,  and  churning  in  the  wake,  while  the  hard  breath 
ing  of  the  desperate  rowers  could  be  heard. 

"Jump  on  her  keel,  fellows!"  roared  a  lusty  voice. 
"  There  are  four  of  us  and  we  can  right  her.  They're 
both  under  the  stern !  " 

In  an  instant,  as  it  seemed,  the  little  cutter  was  lying 
on  her  side,  and  the  four  women  could  see  the  bodies  of 
John  Bond  and  George  Wood  clasped  together  and  en 
tangled  in  the  sail,  but  partly  drawn  out  of  water  by  the 
lifting  of  the  boat's  side.  Quicker  than  thought  Mamie 
was  in  the  wherry  again  and  out  on  the  water.  The 
cutter  had  drifted  in  shore  with  the  current  during  the 
two  or  three  minutes  in  which  all  had  happened.  The 
girl  saw  that  the  rescuers  needed  help  and  was  with  them 
in  an  instant.  What  she  did  she  never  remembered 
afterwards,  but  for  many  days  the  strain  upon  her 
strength  left  her  bruised  and  aching  from  head  to  foot. 
In  less  than  a  minute  the  bodies  of  the  two  men  were  in 
her  boat  and  two  of  the  newcomers  Avere  pulling  her 
ashore.  The  others  caught  their  own  craft  again  and 
swam  to  land,  pushing  it  before  them. 

u 


THK    THHKE    FATKS. 

With  a  cr\  that  seemed  to  break  her  In-art  Grace  fell 
upon  her  husband's  corpse.  He  was  dead,  and  she  knew 
it,  though  t\vo  tit  tin-  ini-ii  did  everything  in  their  power 
to  reston-  him.  They  were  all  gentlemen  who  lived  b\ 
the  river,  and  knew  what  to  do  in  such  cases. 

On  the  other  side  the  two  young  girls  knelt  beside  the 
body  of  George  AYood,  both  their  faces  as  white  as  his, 
both  silent,  botli  he Ij tin g  to  their  utmost  in  the  attempt  to 
bring  him  to  life.  The  men  were  prompt  and  determined 
in  their  action.  One  of  tln-m  was  a  physician.  For  man\ 
minutes  they  moved  Qeorge'l  arms  up  and  down  with  a 
regular,  cadenced  motion,  so  as  to  expand  and  contract 
the  lungs  and  ]»ro<luee  an  artiticial  l>reathing. 

••  I  am  afraid  it  is  all  up,"  said  one  in  a  low  voice  to 
his  companion. 

"  Xot  yet,"  answered  the  other,  who  was  the  doctor. 
"  I  believe  he  is  alive." 

He  was  right.  A  minute  later  George's  eyelids  trem 
bled. 

••  He  is  alive,"  said  Constance  in  a  strange.  happ\ 
voice. 

Mamie  said  nothing,  but  her  great  grey  eyes  opened 
wide  with  joy.  Then  all  at  (.nee,  with  a  smothered  ci  \ 
>he  threw  herself  upon  him  and  kissed  his  dark  face  pas 
sionately,  heedless  of  the  two  strangers  as  she  was  of  the 
urirl  \\ho  was  kneeling  opj»o>ite  to  her. 

Constance  .sei/ed  her  by  the  arm  and  pushed  her  awa\ 
In  mi  <ieorge  with  a  strength  no  one  would  have  suspected 
her  of  possessing. 

"What  is  he  to  you.  that  you  should  do  that?"  she 
asked  in  a  tone  trembling  with  passion. 

Mamie's  eyes  Hashed  angrily  as  she  shook  herself  five 
and  raised  her  head. 

"I  love  him."  she  said  proudly.  "What  are  you  to 
him  that  you  should  come  between  us'.'" 

opened    his  e\es   slowly. 

!"      He  could  hardly  articulate   the   name, 
und  a  violent  tit  of  enughing  .succeeded  the  effort. 


THE   THKKE   FATES. 

The  two  girls  looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  Both  had 
heard  the  syllables,  and  both  knew  what  they  meant.  In 
Constance's  face  there  was  pride,  triumph,  supreme  hap 
piness.  In  Mamie's  closely-set  lips  and  flashing  eyes 
there  was  implacable  hatred.  She  rose  to  her  feet  and 
drew  back,  slowly,  while  Constance  remained  kneeling 
on  the  ground.  One  moment  more  she  remained  where 
she  was,  gazing  at  her  retreating  rival.  Then,  with  one 
more  glance  at  George's  reviving  eyes,  she  sprang  up 
and  went  to  her  sister's  side. 

Grace's  grief  was  uncontrollable  and  terrible  to  see. 
During  the  night  that  followed  it  was  impossible  to 
make  her  leave  her  husband's  body.  She  was  far  too 
strong  to  break  down  or  to  go  mad,  and  she  suffered 
everything  that  a  human  being  can  suffer  without  a  mo 
ment's  respite. 

Constance  never  left  her,  though  she  could  do  nothing 
to  soothe  her  fearful  sorrow.  Words  were  of  no  use, 
for  Grace  could  not  hear  them.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
done,  but  to  wait  and  pray  that  she  might  become  ex 
hausted  by  the  protracted  agony. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  the  four  gentlemen 
who  had  saved  George's  life  brought  him  home  with 
Mamie  and  her  mother.  There  had  been  much  to  be 
thought  of  before  he  could  think  of  returning.  They 
had  carried  him  to  Constance's  house  at  first,  for  he  had 
been  unable  to  walk,  and  they  had  given  him  some  of 
the  dead  man's  clothes  in  place  of  his  own  dripping  gar 
ments,  had  chafed  him  and  warmed  him  and  poured 
stimulants  down  his  throat.  The  doctor  in  the  party 
had  strongly  urged  him  to  spend  the  night  where  he 
\\  us.  But  nothing  could  induce  him  to  do  that.  As  soon 
as  he  was  strong  enough  to  walk  he  insisted  on  recrossing 
the  river. 

Even  Totty  was  terribly  shocked  and  depressed  by 
what  had  happened.  She  was  not  without  heart  and  the 
tears  came  into  her  eyes  when  she  thought  of  Grace's 
cruel  bereavement. 


2iJ2  THE   THREE    PATK8. 

Oh,  George,"  si..-  >ai.l  l..-t'«. re  th.-\  retired  for  the 
night,  "you  don't  think  anything  more  could  have  been 
done,  do  you'/  It  was  quite  imp»>»ihh-  to  save  him.  was 
it  not?" 

A  faint  smile  passed  ..VIM-  tin-  tired  tare  of  the  man 
who  hail  to  all  intents  and  jnirpo.sc>  sacrificed  his  own 
life  in  the  attempt  to  save  .lohn  P>ond,  who  had  been  as 
dead  as  hi-  >o  tar  as  his  own  sensations  were  concerned. 

"  I  did  what  I  could."  he  answered  simply. 

Mamie  looked  keenly  into  his  eyes,  as  she  hade  him 
good-nijjht.  Her  mother  was  already  at  the  door. 

"  You  love  Constance  Fearing  still."  she  said  in  a  tout- 
that  could  not  reach  Totty's  ears. 

UI  hope  not."  (Icor^e  answered  with  sudden  coldness. 

"When  you  opened  your  eyes,  you  said  'Constance' 
quite  distinctly.  \Vebothheard  it." 

"Did  I?  That  was  very  foolish.  The  next  time  I 
am  drowned  in  the  presence  of  ladies  I  will  try  and  be 
more  careful." 


CHAI'TKK    XXI. 

The  sudden  death  of  ,l..hn  I'.ond  caused  an  interruption 
in  the  lives  of  most  of  the  people  ronm ned  in  this  his 
tory.  George  Wood  had  received  one  <>r  those  \iolent 
mental  impressions  from  which  men  do  not  recover  tor 
many  weeks,  ft  was  lon^  In-fore  hr  could  rid  his 
of  the  ever-ivpcated  scene.  When  he  cloed  his 
the  white  sail  of  the  little  .-utter  msr  lietoiv  them,  the 
sharp  and  sudden  squall  struck  the  canvas,  and  ulnmst 
at  the  same  instant  ho  felt  himself  nm-c  more  in  the  c.x.l 
depths,  stni^ling  with  a  man  already  almost  dead, 
striving  with  agonised  deterniinat  ion  to  hold  his  luvath. 
then  aliandoiiiii'4  the  .-tt'nrt  and  losing  conscious: 
•  •nly  to  awake  with  a  violent  start  and  a  >ln.rt.  >nmth- 


THE   THREE    FATES.  298 

Even  Totty,  who  was  not  naturally  nervous,  was 
haunted  by  terrible  visions  in  the  night  and  was  a  little 
pale  and  subdued  during  a  fortnight  after  the  accident. 
Mamie  wore  a  strange  expression,  which  neither  George 
nor  her  mother  could  understand.  Her  lips  were  often 
tightly  set  together  as  though  in  some  desperate  effort, 
in  which  her  eyelids  drooped  and  her  fingers  grasped 
convulsively  whatever  they  held.  She  was  living  over 
again  that  awful  moment  when  she  had  clutched  what 
she  had  believed  to  be  the  dead  body  of  the  man  she 
loved,  and  almost  unaided,  she  knew  not  how,  had 
dragged  it  into  the  boat.  There  was  another  instant, 
too,  which  recalled  itself  vividly  to  her  memory,  the  one 
in  which  the  reviving  man  had  pronounced  Constance's 
name,  and  Constance  had  shown  her  triumph  in  her  eyes. 

As  often  happens  in  such  cases,  both  George  and 
Mamie  had  been  less  exhausted  on  the  evening  of  the 
fatal  day  than  they  had  been  for  several  days  afterwards. 
It  was  long  before  Mamie  made  any  reference  again  to 
the  first  word  he  had  spoken  with  returning  conscious 
ness.  She  often,  indeed,  stood  gazing  across  the  river, 
towards  the  scene  of  the  tragedy  and  beyond  the  tall  trees 
in  the  direction  of  the  house  that  was  hidden  behind 
them,  and  George  knew  what  was  in  her  thoughts  better 
than  he  could  tell  what  was  in  his  own.  He  had  learned 
soon  enough  that  he  owed  a  large  share  of  gratitude  for 
the  preservation  of  his  life  to  Mamie  herself.  The 
young  doctor  who  had  done  so  much,  had  been  to  see  him 
more  than  once  and  had  repeated  to  him  that  if  he  had 
been  left,  even  with  his  head  above  water,  but  without 
the  immediate  assistance  necessary  in  such  cases,  during 
two  or  three  minutes  more,  he  would  in  all  likelihood 
never  have  breathed  again.  The  presence  of  a  boat  on 
the  spot,  and  above  all  Mamie's  exhibition  of  an  almost 
supernatural  strength  in  getting  George  into  the  wherry, 
had  really  saved  his  life-  Without  her,  the  four  men 
who  had  acted  so  promptly  would  have  been  helpless. 
Their  own  craft  was  adrift  and  empty,  and  they  had  been 


•jy4  1  HI       I  HKhK     l-.\  M.S. 

unable  to  right  tin-  cutter  s<»  as  to  make  u>e  of  her,  light 
as  she  was.  The  doctor  did  not  fail  to  say  the  same 
thing  to  Mamie,  complimenting  her  on  her  presence  of 
mind  and  extraordinary  energy  in  a  way  that  brought 
the  colour  to  her  pale  cheeks.  (ieorge  felt  that  a  new 
tie  bound  him  to  his  cousin. 

It  was  indeed  impossible  that  where  then-  was  already 
so  much  genuine  affection  on  the  one  side  and  M>  mm -h 
devoted  love  on  the  other,  such  an  accident  sin  MI  Id  nut 
increase  both  in  a  like  prupurtiun.  Whether  it  \\eiv 
really  true  that  Mamie  had  been  the  immediate  means  oi 
saving  George  or  not,  the  testimony  was  universally  in 
favour  of  that  opinion,  and  the  girl  herself  was  per 
suaded  that  without  her  help  he  would  have  perished. 
She  had  saved  him  at  the  moment  of  death,  and  she 
loved  him  ten  times  more  passionately  than  before.  As 
for  him,  he  doubted  his  own  power  to  reason  in  tin- 
matter.  He  had  been  fond  of  her  before;  he  was  devot 
edly  attached  to  her  now.  His  whole  nature  was  full  of 
gratitude  and  trust  where  she  was  concerned,  and  his 
relations  with  Constance  Fearing  began  to  take  the  aj» 
pearance  of  an  infidelity  to  Mamie.  If  he  asked  himself 
whether  he  felt  or  could  ever  feel  for  his  cousin  what  he 
had  felt  so  strongly  for  Constanee.  the  answer  was  plain 
enough.  It  was  impossible.  But  if  he  put  the  matter 
differently  he  found  a  different  re>p<uisr  in  his  heart. 
If,  thought  he,  the  two  young  girls  were  drowning 
before  his  eyes,  as  .John  P>ond  ami  lie  had  been  drowning 
before  theirs,  and  if  it  were  only  possible  to  save  one. 
which  should  it  be'.'  In  that  imaginary  moment  that 

so  real  from  his  recent  experience,  when  he  ITM 
swimming  forward  with  all  his  might  to  reach  the  sput 
in  time,  would  he  have  struck  out  to  the  right  and  saved 
Mamie,  or  would  he  have  turned  to  the  left  and  drawn 
Constance  ashore?  There  was  no  hesitation.  Mamie 
should  have  lived  and  Cunstam-r  might  have  died,  though 

»uld  have  risked  his  nun  life  a  hundred  times  to 
help  her  after  the  tirst  was  safe,  and  though  the  thought 


THE   THREE   FATES.  295 

of  her  death  sent  a  sharp  pain  through  his  heart.  Was  he 
then  in  love  with  both?  That  was  an  impossibility,  he 
thought,  an  absurdity  that  could  never  be  a  reality,  the 
creation  perhaps  of  some  morbid  story-maker,  evolved 
without  experience  from  the  elaboration  of  imaginary 
circumstances. 

Since  he  had  entered  upon  this  frame  of  mind  he  had 
grown  very  cautious  and  reticent.  He  was  playing  with 
fire  on  both  sides.  That  Mamie  loved  him  with  all  her 
heart  he  now  no  longer  doubted,  and  as  for  Constance, 
now  that  he  had  not  seen  her  for  some  time  and  had 
found  leisure  to  reflect  upon  her  conduct,  it  seemed  clear 
that  the  latter  could  not  be  explained  upon  any  ordinary 
theory  of  friendship,  and  if  so,  she  also  loved  him  in  her 
own  strange  way.  He  wished  it  had  been  easier  to 
decide  between  the  two,  if  he  must  decide  at  all.  If 
there  was  to  be  no  decision,  he  should  lose  no  time  in 
leaving  the  neighbourhood.  To  stay  where  he  was  would 
be  to  play  a  contemptibly  irresponsible  part.  He  was 
disturbing  Constance's  peace  of  mind,  and  he  was  not 
sure  that  at  any  moment  he  might  not  do  or  say  some 
thing  that  would  make  Mamie  believe  that  he  loved  her. 
He  owed  too  much  to  these  two  beings,  about  whom 
his  strongest  affections  were  centred,  he  could  not  and 
would  not  give  either  the  one  or  the  other  a  moment's 
pain. 

Totty  was  also  not  without  her  apprehensions  in  the 
matter.  When  she  had  somewhat  recovered  from  the 
impression  of  the  accident,  she  began  to  think  it  very 
odd  that  George  should  have  been  sitting  alone  with  Con 
stance  under  the  trees  on  that  Sunday  afternoon.  She 
remembered  that  he  had  disappeared  mysteriously  soon 
after  luncheon,  without  saying  anything  of  his  inten 
tions.  She  argued  that  he  had  certainly  not  met  Con 
stance  by  accident,  and  that  if  the  meeting  had  been 
agreed  upon  the  two  must  have  met  before.  She  knew 
that  George  had  once  loved  the  girl,  and  all  she  posi 
tively  knew  of  the  cause  of  the  coldness  between  them 


I  Hi      l  BBU   FATEft. 

was  what  she  had  learned  from  himself.  Slio  had 
undoubtedly  refused  him  and  he  had  been  very  angry, 
hut  that  did  not  prevent  his  otlering  himself  a-ain,  ami 
did  not  by  an\  means  exclude  the  possibility  of  his  bcm- 
•<1.  Totty  was  wo rldly-wi.se.  and  >he  understood 
women  of  (',,1,  type  better  than  most  of 

them  understand  themselves.  They  imagine  that  in 
refusing  men  they  are  temporarily,  and  by  an  act  of 
their  own  volition,  putting  them  back  from  the  state  of 
love  to  the  state  of  devoted  friendship,  in  order  to  dis 
cover  whether  they  themselves  are  m  atmati  Many 
men  bear  the  treatment  kindly  and  reappear  at  tin- 
ex  pectcd  t  line  with  their  seem  id  declarat  ion.  arc  accepted, 
happily  married  and  forgotten  promptly  by  de.^ignin^ 
mothers.  (  Jccasiniially  a  man  appears  who  is  like  ( leorge 
\Vn,,d,  who  raves,  storms,  grows  thin  and  refuses  to 
-peak  to  the  heartless  little  flirt  who  has  wrecked  his 
existence,  until,  on  a  summer's  day  he  is  unexpectedly 
forced  into  her  society  again,  when  he  finds  that  he  i 
her  still,  tells  her  so  and  receives  a  kind  answer, 
prompted  by  the  fear  of  losm-  imn  alto-ether. 

The  prospect  was  not  a   pleasant   one.       If    at    the    j 
cut   juncture  Constance  were  to  succeed  in  winniir    <  k 
back.    Totty    was    capable   of    In-ill^    roused    to    -ivat    and 
•ireful   \\rath.       Hitherto    she    had    not    even    thought 
of  such  a  catastrophe  as  probable,   but  the  discovery  that 
the   two   had    been    spending   a    -pict    afternoon    together 
under  the  trees  strangely  altered  the  face  of   the  situation 
If.  however,  <;,.oixre  still   felt  a  1 1  \  1 1 1 1  i\x  f  or  t  he  -  i  r  1 .  Totty 
had  not    failed  to  see  that  she  also  had  -allied    something 
by  the  accident.       It    was  a  ^reat  point  that  Mamie  should 

ha\e      saved      (ieo|-e'>      life,      ami      the      lon-e)       Ml-.TllIlUM 

thoii-ht  ..f  it.  the  more  sine  she  became  that  he  had 
owed  his  salvation  to  t  he  yoim-  ;_'irl  alone,  and  that  the 
tour  gentlemen  who  had  app>  opj.ortunely  had 

only    been    a<  to    her    action,      (iei.r^e    must    be 

hard-hearted  indeed  if  he  were  not  grateful,  and  the 
natural  way  oi  showing  his  gratitude  should  be  to  fall  in 


THE    THREE    FATES.  297 

love  without  delay.  But  George  was  an  inscrutable 
being,  as  was  sufficiently  shown  by  his  secretly  meeting 
Constance.  Totty  wondered  whether  she  ought  not  to 
give  him  a  hint,  to  convey  tactfully  to  him  the  informa 
tion  that  Mamie  was  deeply  in  love,  to  let  him  know 
that  he  was  welcome  to  many  her.  She  hesitated  to  do 
this,  however,  fearinj  »rge  should  take  to  flight. 

She  knew  better  than  any  one  that  he  had  been  more 
attracted  by  the  comfort,  the  quiet  and  the  luxury  of  her 
home  than  by  Mamie,  when  he  had  consented  to  spend 
the  summer  under  the  roof,  and  though  Mamie  herself 
had  now  grown  to  be  an  attraction  in  his  eyes,  she  did 
not  believe  that  the  girl  had  inspired  in  him  anything 
like  the  sincere  passion  he  had  felt  for  Constance. 

Meanwhile  those  who  had  been  most  nearly  affected  by 
the  calamity  were  passing  through  one  of  those  periods 
of  life  upon  which  men  and  women  afterwards  look  back 
with  amazement,  wondering  how  they  could  have  borne 
so  much  without  breaking  under  the  strain.  Grace  was 
beside  herself  with  grief.  After  the  first  few  days  of 
passionate  weeping  she  regained  some  command  over  her 
actions,  but  the  deep-seated,  unrelenting  pain,  which  no 
longer  found  vent  in  tears  was  harder  to  bear,  inasmuch 
as  it  was  more  conscious  of  itself  and  of  its  own  fearful 
proportions.  For  many  days,  the  miserable  woman 
never  left  her  room,  sitting  from  morning  till  evening 
in  the  same  attitude,  dry-eyed  and  motionless,  gazing 
at  the  place  where  her  dead  husl  and  had  lain ;  and  in 
that  same  place  she  lay  all  night,  sle-  iting  for 

the  dawn,  looking  for  the  first  grey  light  at  the  window, 
listening  for  his  breathing,  in  the  mad  hope  that  it  had 
all  been  but  a  dream  which  would  vanish  before  the 
morning  sun.  Her  heart  would  not  break,  her  strong, 
well-balanced  intelligence  would  not  give  way.  though 
she  longed  for  death  or  madness  to  end  her  suff erir.  _• 

At  first  Constance  was  always  with  her.  but  before 
long  she  understood  that  the  strong  woman  preferred  to 
be  alone.  All  that  could  be  done  was  to  insist  upon  her 


298  THE   THREE    FATES. 

taking  food  at  regular  intervals  and  to  pray  that  her 
state  might  soon  change.  Once  or  twice  Constance  urged 
her  to  leave  the  place  and  to  allow  herself  to  be  takm  t<> 
the  city,  to  the  seaside,  abroad,  any  when-  away  from 
everything  that  reminded  her  of  the  past.  But  Grace 
stared  at  her  with  coldly  wondering  eyes. 

"  It  is  all  I  have  left  —  the  memory, "  she  said,  and 
relapsed  into  silence. 

Constance  consulted  physicians  without  her  sister's 
knowledge,  but  they  said  that  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done,  that  such  cases  were  rare  but  not  unknown,  that 
Mrs.  Bond's  great  strength  of  constitution  would  survive 
the  strain  since  it  had  resisted  the  first  shock.  And  so 
it  proved  in  the  end.  For  on  a  certain  morning  in  Sep 
tember,  when  Constance  was  seated  alone  in  a  corner  of 
the  old-fashioned  garden,  she  had  been  startled  by  the 
sudden  appearance  of  a  tall  figure  in  black,  and  of  a  face 
which  she  hardly  recognised  as  being  her  sister's.  She 
had  been  accustomed  to  seeing  her  in  the  dimness  of  a 
darkened  room,  wrapped  in  loose  garments,  her  smooth 
brown  hair  hanging  down  in  straight  plaits.  She  was 
dressed  now  with  all  the  scrupulous  care  of  appearance 
that  was  natural  to  her,  with  perfect  simplicity  as 
became  her  deep  mourning,  but  also  with  perfect  ta>t.  . 
Rut  the  correctness  of  her  costume  only  served  to  shm\ 
the  changes  that  had  taken  place  during  the  past  wc<  k^ 
She  was  thin  almost  to  emaciation,  her  smooth  young 
cheeks  were  hollow  and  absolutely  colourless,  her  brown 
eyes  were  sunken  and  their  depth  was  accentuated  by  tin- 
dark  rings  that  surrounded  them.  But  she  was  erect  ;i-> 
she  walked,  and  she  held  her  head  as  proudly  as  rvn-. 
Her  strength  was  not  gone,  for  sin-  :m>\ •»•«!  «iasily  and  with 
out  effort.  Any  on«-  \vou  1«1  liavr  said.  Imwrvrr.  that,  in 
stead  of  being  nearly  tu<>  \»  ars  younger  than  Constance, 
;us  she  actually  was,  she  must  be  several  years  older. 

When  Constance  saw  her,  she  rose  quickly  with  tin 
first  expression  of  joy  that  had  escaped  her  lips  for  many 
a  day. 


THE   THREE   FATES.  299 

"  Thank  God !  "  she  exclaimed.     "  At  last !  " 

"  At  last,"  Grace  answered  quietly.  "  One  thing  only, 
Constance,"  she  continued  after  a  pause.  "I  will  be 
myself  again.  But  do  not  talk  of  going  away,  and  never 
speak  of  what  has  happened." 

"I  never  will,  dear,"  answered  the  older  girl. 

There  had  been  many  inquiries  made  at  the  house 
by  messengers  from  Mrs.  Trimm,  but  neither  she,  nor 
Mamie  nor  George  had  ventured  to  approach  the  place 
upon  which  such  awful  sorrow  had  descended.  They 
had  been  surprised  at  not  learning  that  the  two  sisters 
had  left  their  country-seat,  and  had  made  all  sorts  of 
conjectures  concerning  their  delay  in  going  away,  but 
they  gradually  became  accustomed  to  the  idea  that  Grace 
might  prefer  to  stay  where  she  was. 

"  It  would  kill  me !  "  Totty  exclaimed  with  much 
emphasis. 

"I  could  not  do  it,"  said  Mamie,  looking  at  George 
and  feeling  suddenly  how  hateful  the  sight  of  the  river 
would  have  been  to  her  if  she  had  not  seen  his  eyes  open 
on  that  terrible  day  when  he  lay  like  dead  before  her. 

"I  would  not,  whether  I  could  or  not,"  George  said. 
And  he  on.  his  part  wondered  what  he  would  have  felt, 
had  Constance  or  Mamie,  or  both,  perished  instead  of 
John  Bond.  A  slight  shiver  ran  through  him,  and  told 
him  that  he  would  have  felt  something  he  had  never 
experienced  before. 

One  morning  when  they  were  all  at  breakfast  a  note 
was  brought  to  George  in  a  handwriting  he  did  not 
recognise,  but  which  was  oddly  familiar  from  its  resem 
blance  to  Constance's. 

"  Do  see  what  it  is !  "  exclaimed  Totty  before  he  had 
time  to  ask  permission  to  read  it. 

His  face  expressed  nothing  as  he  glanced  over  the  few 
lines  the  note  contained,  folded  it  again  and  put  it  into 
his  pocket. 

"Mrs.  Bond  wants  me  to  go  and  see  her,"  he  said,  in 
explanation.  "I  wonder  why!  " 


300  TRE    THREE    FATES. 

"It  is  very  natural,"  Totty  answered.  "Sin-  wants  to 
thank  you  for  what  you  did." 

"Very    unnecessary,    considering   tin-    unfortunate    rr- 

sult."  oldened  tieorge  thoughtfully, 

"Will  you  go  to-day1.'"  Mamie  asked  in  tin-  hope  that 
he  would  >ir_ru'-st  taking  her  with  him. 

*'  Of  eon  rse."  he  answered  shorth.  A-  -oi»n  as  break 
fast  was  over  he  went  to  his  work,  without  spending 
what  he  called  his  quarter  of  an  hour's  -race  in  tin- 
garden  with  his  cousin. 

ileorge  Wood  was  a  nervoii.s  and  >»-n.sit  i\ •«•  man  in  >jiiti- 

of  his  strong  organisation,  and  In-  tdi  a  strong 

nanc<-  to  n-visit  in.ur  tin-  >(•••]«•  «d  tin-  fatal  accident. 
had  indeed  Uccn  on  the  riv»-r  ^<'\rral  tinn-s  since 
had  been  drowned,  and  had  taken  Mamie  with  him.  tell 
ing  her  that  one  ought  to  get  over  the  tir>t  ini|»iv»ion  at 
once,  lest  one  should  lose  the  power  ot  -ettin^over  them 
at  all.  Hut  to  row  into  the  \er\  water  in  which  John 
had  died  and  he  himself  had  nearly  lost  his  life.  wa>  M 
\  et  more  than  he  rared  to  ilo  when  there  was  no  definite 

ol.ject    to   l.c    ^.tilled.        Though     the     little    w.M.di-d    poillt    of 

1  tnd  was  nearer   to   the    house  than  the  landing,  he  went 
to  the  latter  without   hesitation. 

He  was  shocked  at  <lrace\  appearance  when  he  met 
her  in  the  great  old  drawing-room.  Her  face  was  ver\ 
irrave.  almot  -olcmn  in  its  immobility,  and  her  eyefl 
I  H.ked  unnaturally  large. 

"I   tear  I   have  given  you  a  great    deal   of  trouble.    Mr. 

W 1."  >he  Nitid  as  she  laid  her  thin   cold    lingers    in    his 

hand.       He     remembered    that    her    grasp    had    formerly 
been  warm  and   full  of  lite. 

"Nothing  that  you  could  ask  of  me  would  give  me 
trouble."  George  UlSWered  earnestly.  He  had  an  idea 
that  ^he  wanted  him  to  do  her  >i»me  .service,  in  some  way 
connected  with  the  accident,  but  he  could  not  imagine 
what  it  might  be. 

"Thank  you."  she  >;iid.  He  noticed  that  -he  contin 
iied  to  stand,  and  that  she  was  apparently  dres>»-d  for 


THE   THREE   FATES.  301 

going  out.  "That  is  one  reason  why  I  asked  you  to 
come.  I  have  not  been  myself  and  have  seen  no  one 
until  now.  Let  me  thank  you  —  as  only  I  can  —  for 
your  noble  and  gallant  attempt  to  save  my  husband." 

Her  voice  did  not  tremble  nor  did  the  glance  of  her 
deep  eyes  waver  as  she  spoke  of  the  dead  man,  but  George 
felt  that  he  had  never  seen  nor  dreamed  of  such  grief  as 
hers. 

"I  could  not  do  less,"  he  said  hoarsely,  for  he  found  it 
hard  to  speak  at  all. 

"No  man  ever  did  more.  No  man  could  do  more,'' 
Grace  said  gravely.  "  And  now,  will  you  do  me  a  great 
service?  A  great  kindness?" 

"Anything,"  George  answered  readily. 

"  It  will  be  hard  for  you.  It  will  be  harder  for  me. 
Will  you  come  with  me  to  the  place  and  tell  me  as  well 
as  you  can,  how  it  all  happened?  " 

George  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  his  face  and  her  expression  had  not  changed. 

"It  is  the  only  kindness  any  one  can  do  for  me,"  she 
said  simply;  and  then  without  waiting  for  any  further 
answer  she  turned  towards  the  door. 

George  walked  by  her  side  in  silence.  They  left  the 
house  and  took  the  direction  of  the  wooded  point,  never 
exchanging  a  word  as  they  went.  From  time  to  time 
George  glanced  at  his  companion's  face,  wondering 
inwardly  what  manner  of  woman  she  might  be  who  was 
able  to  suffer  as  she  evidently  had  suffered,  and  yet 
could  of  her  own  accord  face  such  an  explanation  of 
events  as  she  had  asked  him  to  give  her.  In  less  than 
ten  minutes  they  had  reached  the  spot.  Grace  stood  a 
few  seconds  without  speaking,  her  thin  face  fixed  in  its 
unchangeable  look  of  pain,  her  arms  hanging  down,  her 
hands  clasped  loosely  together. 

"Now  tell  me.  Tell  me  everything.  Do  not  be 
afraid  —  I  am  very  strong." 

George  collected  his  thoughts.  He  wished  to  make 
the  story  as  short  as  possible,  while  omitting  nothing 
that  was  of  vital  importance. 


302  THE   THREE    FATES. 

"I  was  rowing."  he  said,  "and  I  saw  what  happened. 
The  boat  was  lying  to  and  drifting  vrv  slowly.  Your 
husband  put  the  helm  ii]»  and  she  began  to  turn.  At 
that  moment  tin-  sijuall  came.  He  tried  to  let  out  the 
sail  —  that  wuiild  have  taken  off  tin-  pressure  —  but  it 
seemed  as  though  he  could  not.  The  last  I  saw  of  Jiim 

Was  jUSt  as  the  boat  heeled  (»Yer.  He  >reined  to  he  t!\ 
illg  t«>  get  the  sheet  — the  Tope,  you  kimw  —  loose.  BO 
that  it  would  run.  Then  tin-  boat  went  OY6I  and  I 
thought  he  had  merely  fallen  overboard  upon  the  other 
side.  I  asked  you  it'  he  could  swim.  \Yhen  you  cried 
out,  I  jumped  over  and  swam  as  hard  as  I  could.  Not 
seeing  him  I  dived  under.  He  seemed  to  he  entangled 
in  the  ropes  and  the  sail  and  was  struggling  furiously. 
I  tried  to  drag  him  hack,  hut  he  could  not  ir,.f  out  and 
caught  me  by  the  arm  so  that  I  could  not  move  either. 
I  did  my  best,  but  my  breath  would  not  hold  out,  and  I 
could  not  get  iny  head  from  under.  He  was  not  moving 
then,  though  lie  held  me  still.  That  is  the  last  I 
remember,  his  grip  upon  my  arm.  Then  I  took  in  tin- 
water  and  it  was  all  ovei •." 

He  eeased  speaking  and  looked  at  <irace.  She  wax  it 
possible,  pale]'  than  before,  but  she  had  not  elianged  her 
position  and  she  was  ga/ing  at  the  water.  Many  .seconds 
el.-ipsed.  until  (Jeorge  began  to  tear  that  >he  had  fallen 
into  a  sort  of  trance.  He  waited  a  little  longer  and  then 

Spoke   to   her. 

-  Mr>.  Bondl  "  She  made  no  reply.  "  Are  you  ill?" 
ke<L  She  turned  lier  head  slowly  towards  him. 

"  No.       I  am  not  ill.       Let  us  go  back."  she  said. 

They  returned  to  the  house  as  silently  as  they  had 
come.  Her  step  did  not  falter  and  her  face  did  not 
change.  When  they  reached  the  door,  she  stood  still 
and  put  «»ut  her  hand,  evidently  wishing  him  to  leave 
her. 

"  You  were  \er\  brave,"  she  >aid.  "And  you  have 
been  very  kind  to-day.  I  hope  you  will  come  and  see 
me  Bometuneo." 


THE   THREE    FATES.  308 

George  bowed  his  head  silently  and  took  leave  of  her. 
He  had  not  the  heart  to  ask  for  Constance,  and,  indeed, 
he  preferred  to  be  alone  for  a  time.  He  had  experienced 
ji  new  and  strange  emotion,  and  his  eyes  had  been 
opened  concerning  the  ways  of  human  suffering.  If  he 
had  not  seen  and  heard,  he  would  never  have  believed 
that  a  woman  capable  of  such  calmness  was  in  reality 
heartbroken.  But  it  was  impossible  to  look  at  Grace's 
face  and  to  hear  the  tones  of  her  voice  without  under 
standing  instantly  that  the  whole  fabric  of  her  life  was 
wrecked.  As  she  had  told  her  sister,  she  had  nothing 
left  but  the  memory,  and  she  had  been  determined  that 
it  should  be  complete,  that  no  detail  should  be  wanting 
to  the  very  end.  It  was  a  satisfaction  to  remember  that 
his  last  words  —  insignificant  enough  —  had  been  ad 
dressed  to  her.  She  had  wanted  to  know  what  his  last 
movement  had  been,  his  last  struggle  for  life.  She 
knew  it  all  now,  and  she  was  satisfied,  for  there  was 
nothing  more  to  be  known. 

As  he  rowed  himself  slowly  across  the  river,  George 
could  not  help  remembering  the  Grace  Fearing  he 
remembered  in  old  times  and  comparing  her  with  the 
woman  he  had  just  left.  The  words  she  had  spoken  in 
praise  of  his  courage  were  still  in  his  ear  with  their 
ring  of  heartfelt  gratitude  and  with  the  look  that  had 
accompanied  them.  There  was  something  grand  about 
her  which  he  admired.  She  had  never  been  afraid  to 
show  that  she  disliked  him  when  she  had  feared  that  he 
might  marry  her  sister.  When  Constance  had  at  last 
determined  upon  her  answer,  it  had  been  Grace  who  had 
conveyed  it,  with  a  frankness  which  he  had  once  dis 
trusted,  but  which  he  remembered  and  knew  now  to 
have  been  real.  She  had  never  done  anything  of  which 
she  was  ashamed  and  she  had  been  able  now  to  thank 
him  from  her  heart,  looking  fearlessly  into  his  eyes. 
She  would  have  behaved  otherwise  if  she  had  ever 
deceived  him.  She  would  have  said  too  much  or  too 
little,  or  she  might  have  felt  bound  to  confess  at  such  a 


304  THE   THKKI.    I    \  I  l.> 

moment  tliat  she  had  formerly  done  him  a  wrong.  A 
strange  woman  slit-  was.  he  thought,  hut  a  strong  "lie 
and  very  honest.  She  had  never  hesitated  in  her  lit'*-, 
and  had  never  regretted  anything  she  had  done  —  it  was 
written  in  her  face  even  n»>w.  lit*  did  not  understan  1 
why  she  wished  to  see  him  often,  for  In-  could  have  sup- 
posed  that  his  mere  presence  must  call  up  the  m»>M  pain 
ful  memories.  15ut  he  determined  that  it'  she  remained 
some  time  longer  he  would  once  or  twice  cross  the  river 
and  spend  an  hour  with  her.  The  renieiul, ranee  ,,t 
to-day's  interview  would  make  all  subsequent  meetings 
366m  pleasant  by  comparison. 

The  circumstances  of  the  afternoon  had  wearied  him. 
and  he  was  glad  to  find  himself  a  train  in  the  midst  <>t 
more  pleasant  and  familiar  associations,  in  answer  to 
Totty's  inquiries  as  to  how  Grace  looked  and  l»eh;i\ed 
during  his  visit,  he  said  very  little.  She  looked  \«  iy 
ill,  she  behaved  with  great  self-possession,  and  she  had 
wished  to  know  some  details  about  the  accident.  More 
than  that  George  would  not  say,  and  his  imperturbable 
face  did  not  betray  that  there  was  anything  more  to  In- 
said.  In  the  evening  he  found  himself  alone  with  Mamie 
on  the  verandah,  Totty  having  gone  within  as  usual,  mi 
pretence  of  writing  letters.  The  weather  was  .still  pleas 
ant,  though  it  had  grown  much  cooler,  and  Mamie  had 
thrown  a  soft  white  shawl  over  her  shoulders,  of  which 
George  could  see  the  outlines  in  the  gloom. 

"Tell  me,  what  did  she  really  do'.'"  Mamie  asked, 
after  a  h»ng  silence. 

(ieorge  hesitated  a  moment.  He  was  willing  to  tell 
her  manv  thing*  which  he  would  not  have  told  her 
mother,  for  lie  felt  that  she  could  understand  them  and 
sympathise  with  them  when  Totty  would  only  pretend 

to  do  BO. 

"\Vliv  do  \ou  want  to  know'.'"  he  asked,  l.y  wa\  of 
giving  himself  mure  time  to  think. 

"  Is  it  not  natural'.'  I  would  like  to  know  how  a 
woman  Mtfl  when  the  man  she  lovefl  is  dead." 


THE   THREE   FATES.  305 

"Poor  thing! "  said  George.  "There  is  not  much  to 
tell,  but  I  would  not  have  it  known  —  do  you  under 
stand?  She  made  me  walk  with  her  to  the  place  where 
it  happened  and  go  over  the  whole  story.  She  never 
said  a  word,  though  she  looked  like  death.  She  suffers 
terribly  —  so  terribly  that  there  is  something  grand 
in  it." 

"Poor  Grace!  I  can  understand.  She  wanted  to 
know  all  there  was  to  be  known.  It  is  very  natural." 

"Is  it?  It  seemed  strange  to  me.  Even  I  did  not 
like  to  go  near  the  place,  and  it  was  very  hard  to  tell 
her  all  about  it  —  how  poor  Bond  gripped  my  arm,  and 
then  the  grip  after  he  was  dead." 

He  shuddered  and  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  I  said  it  all  as  quickly  and  clearly  as  I  could, "  he 
added  presently.  "  She  thanked  me  for  telling  her,  and 
for  what  I  had  done  to  save  her  husband.  She  said  she 
hoped  I  would  come  again  sometimes,  and  then  I  left." 

"  You  did  not  see  Constance,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Xo.  She  did  not  appear.  I  fancy  her  sister  told 
her  not  to  interrupt  us  and  so  she  kept  out  of  the  way. 
It  was  horribly  sad  —  the  whole  thing.  I  could  not 
help  thinking  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  you,  the  poor 
creature  would  never  have  known  how  it  happened.  I 
should  not  have  been  alive  to  tell  the  tale." 

"Are  you  glad  that  you  were  not  drowned?"  Mamie 
asked  in  a  rather  constrained  voice. 

"  For  myself?  I  hardly  know.  I  cannot  tell  whether 
I  set  much  value  on  life  or  not.  Sometimes  it  seems  to 
be  worth  living,  and  sometimes  I  hardly  care." 

"How  can  you  say  that,  George!"  exclaimed  the 
young  girl  indignantly.  "You,  so  young  and  so  suc 
cessful." 

"Whether  life  is  worth  living  or  not  —  who  knows? 
It  has  been  said  to  depend  011  climate  and  the  affections." 

"  The  climate  is  not  bad  here  —  and  as  for  the  affec 
tions  "  Mamie  broke  off  in  a  nervous  laugh. 

"No,"  George  said  as  though  answering  an  unspoken 
v 


i  MI-:  THI;KI:   i-  A  TKS. 

reproach.  "I  do  ii"t  mean  tliiit.  I  know  that  you  are 
all  very  fond  of  me  and  very  good  to  me.  I  Jut  look  at 
poor  .Inlni  I'M  nn  1.  He  ah\a\s  seemed  to  \  ou  t«i  be  an 

uninteresting  fellow,  and  1  used  to  wonder  \\h\  he  found 

lite  worth  lixing.  I  know  now.  !!«•  irM  loved  —  loved 
M  I  fancy  v.-ry  few  men  have  ever  been.  1  f  you  could 
liave  seen  that  poor  woman's  Eaoe  to-day.  \»\i  would 
umlerstand  \\liat  1  mean." 

%<  I  can  understand  without  having  seen  it."  said  .Mamie 
in  a  MiM>tlier«Ml  voice. 

"Nn."  said  (Jenr.^e.  j uirMiiii.i,'  his  train  of  thought, 
tacth-ss  and  manlike.  "Yon  cannot  understand  —  no- 
can.  who  has  not  >«•••!!  her.  There  is  soim-t  hini; 
ni;i-nitie«-iit.  (jueenly  in  a  sorrow  like  that,  and  it 
shows  what  she  felt  for  the  man  and  what  he  knew  >he 
teli.  No  wonder  that  lie  looked  ha]»i>\  !  Now  I.  if  I 
had  been  drowned  the  other  day  —  if  yon  had  not  saved 
me — of  course  people  WOUld  have  lieen  very  sorry,  luit 
there  would  have  been  no  grief  like  that." 

He  was  silent.  Then  a  sharp  short  sol>  broke  the  still 
ness,  and  as  he  turned  his  head  he  >aw  that  Mamie  had 
risen  and  was  passing  swiftly  through  the  door  into  the 
dra\\  ing-room.  He  rose  to  his  feet  and  then  stood  still, 
knowing  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  follow  her. 

"What  a  brute  I  am!"  he  thought  as  he  sat  down 
again. 

Several  minute-  passed.  He  could  hear  the  sound  of 
subdued  voiee.s  within,  and  then  a  door  was  oj.riied  and 
closi-d.  A  moment  later  Totty  came  out  and  looked 
about.  She  was  da/./h-d  by  the  light  and  could  not  164 
him.  He  rose  and  went  forward. 

"  Here   I  am,"  he  .said. 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm  and  looked  at  his  face 
U  >he  spoke,  very  u'rntly. 

•(ieorge.  dear  -tiling  cannot  go  on  like  this,"  she 
-aid. 

"You  are  unite  right.  Totty."  he  answered.  "1  will 
go  away  to-morrow." 


THE   THKEE    KATES.  3U7 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Totty.  "  Have  you  got  one  of  those 
cigars?  Light  it.  I  want  to  have  a  long  talk  with  you." 

Totty  Trimin  had  determined  to  bring  matters  to  a 
crisis. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

George  felt  that  his  heart  was  beating  faster  as  he 
prepared  to  hear  what  Totty  had  to  say.  He  knew  that 
the  moment  had  come  for  making  a  decision  of  some 
sort,  and  he  was  annoyed  that  it  should  be  thrust  upon 
him,  especially  by  Totty  Trimm.  He  could  not  be  sure 
of  what  she  was  about  to  say,  but  he  supposed  that  it 
was  her  intention  to  deliver  him  a  lecture  upon  his  con 
duct  towards  Mamie,  and  to  request  him  to  make  it  clear 
to  the  girl,  either  by  words  or  by  an  immediate  departure, 
that  he  could  never  love  her  and  much  less  marry  her, 
considering  his  relatively  impecunious  position.  It 
struck  him  that  many  women  would  have  spoken  in  a 
more  severe  tone  of  voice  than  his  cousin  used,  but  this 
he  attributed  to  her  native  good  humour  as  much  as  to 
her  tact.  He  drew  his  chair  nearer  to  hers,  nearer  than 
it  had  been  to  Mamie's,  and  prepared  to  listen. 

"George,  dear  boy,"  said  Totty,  "'this  is  a  very  deli 
cate  matter.  I  really  hardly  know  how  to  begin,  unless 
you  will  help  me."  A  little  laugh,  half  shy,  half  affec 
tionate,  rippled  pleasantly  in  the  dusky  air.  Totty 
meant  to  show  from  the  first  that  she  was  not  angry. 

"About  Mamie?"  George  suggested. 

"Yes,"  Totty  answered  with  a  quick  change  to  the 
intonation  of  sadness.  "About  Mamie.  I  am  very 
much  troubled  about  her.  Poor  child !  She  is  so  unhappy 
—  you  do  not  know." 

"I  am  sincerely  sorry,"  said  George  gravely.  "I  am 
very  fond  of  her." 

^  Yes,  I  know  you  are.     If  things  had  not  been  pre- 


808  run  THKKK  h  .\  i  KS. 


as  they  are  -  Sin-    paused   as   though   asking 

his   help. 

"You  w<>uld  have  Keen  glad  «'t  it.  I  understand." 
Ueoi-gr  thought  that  slit-  was  ivt'rrring  to  his  want  ..f 
tin-tune,  as  she  meant  that  In-  should  think.  Sin-  wanted 
to  depress  him  a  little,  in  order  to  surprise  him  tin-  more 
afterwards. 

•'  No,  George  dear.  You  do  not  understand.  I  mean 
that  if  yon  loved  her,  instead  <•!  bring  merely  t'nnd  <>i 
her,  it  would  be  easier  to  speak  ol  it." 

"To  tell  me  to  go  away'/"  In-  asked.  in  M>HIC  JMT- 
1'lrxity. 

"  No  indred!  Do  you  think  1  am  such  a  had  t'rirnd  as 
that1.'  You  must  not  be  so  unkind.  Do  you  thud;  1 
would  have  begged  you  so  hard  to  conn-  and  stay  all 
summer  with  us,  that  I  would  have  left  y<»u  BO  ot'trn 
together  -  " 

"  You  cannot  mean  that  you  wish  me  to  many  h.-r! 
George  exclaimed  in  great  astonishment. 

"It  would  make  me  very  happy,  "  said  Totty  ^rntly. 

"  I  am  amazed  !  v  exclaim«-d  Qeofge.  "I  do  not  know 
what  to  say  —  it  seems  so  stran^i-!  " 

"Does    it?     It   seems   so    natural    t<.    im\      Mam;- 
always    first    in   my    mind  —  whatr\n-  .-an   contribute  to 
ho-    happiness    in    any    way  —  and    especially    in    such    ;i 
\\av  as  this  -  " 

••  \nd  she'/"   (Jeorge  asked. 

"She  Inve.s  \<.ii.  (Je.irge  —  with  all  her  heart."  T<>tt\ 
touched  his  hand  softly.  "And  she  could  not  lo\»-  a 
man  whom  we  slxuild  l>e  more  glad  to  B66  h«-r  marr\." 
>he  adiled.  putting  into  h»-r  7OHM  all  the  friendly  teiidei- 
H6M  >he  could  command. 

'"  let    his    lu-ad  sink   on    his    brtMt,      Totty    held 

his  hand  a  moment  longer,  gavr  it  an  intiiiiteMinal 
MpiiM'/i-  and  then  withdrew  her  own.  .sinking  1-ack  into 
her  chair  with  a  little  si^h  as  thmigli  she  had  unburdened 
her  heart.  |-'.,r  -MUM-  >,-«•<,  nds  neither  sp(,ke  again. 

"Cousin    Totty,"  George    >aid    at    last.   "I    l».die\e   you 


THE   THREE   FATES.  309 

are  the  best  friend  I  have  in  the  world.     I  can  never 
thank  you  for  all  your  disinterested  kindness." 

Totty  smiled  sweetly  in  the  dark,  partly  at  the  words 
he  used  and  partly  at  the  hopes  she  founded  upon  them. 

"It  would  be  strange  if  I  were  not/'  she  said.  "I 
have  many  reasons  for  not  being  your  enemy,  at  all 
events.  I  have  thought  a  great  deal  about  you  during 
the  last  year.  Will  you  let  me  speak  quite  frankly?" 

"  You  have  every  right  to  say  what  you  think, " 
George  answered  gratefully.  "You  have  taken  me  in 
when  I  was  in  need  of  all  the  friendship  and  kindness 
you  have  given  me.  You  have  made  me  a  home,  you 
have  given  me  back  the  power  to  work,  which  seemed 
gone,  you  have " 

"Xo,  no,  George,  do  not  talk  of  such  wretched  things. 
There  are  hundreds  of  people  who  would  be  only  too 
proud  and  delighted  to  have  George  Winton  Wood  spend 
a  summer  with  them  —  yes,  or  many  their  daughters. 
You  do  not  seem  to  realise  that  —  a  man  of  your  char 
acter,  of  your  rising  reputation  —  not  to  say  celebrity  — 
a  man  of  your  qualities  is  a  match  for  any  girl.  But 
that  is  not  what  I  meant  to  say.  It  is  something  much 
harder  to  express,  something  about  which  I  have  never 
talked  to  you,  and  never  thought  I  should.  Will  you  for 
give  me,  if  I  speak  now?  It  is  about  Constance  Fearing." 

George  looked  up  quickly. 

"Provided  you  say  nothing  unkind  or  unjust  about 
her,"  he  answered  without  hesitation. 

"  I?  "  ejaculated  Totty  in  surprise.  "  Am  I  not  so  fond 
of  her,  that  I  wanted  you  to  marry  her?  I  cannot  say 
more,  I  am  sure.  Constance  is  a  noble-hearted  girl,  a 
little  too  sensitive  perhaps,  but  good  beyond  expression. 
Yes,  she  is  good.  That  is  just  the  word.  Scrupulous  to 
a  degree !  She  has  the  most  finely  balanced  conscience 
I  have  ever  known.  Dr.  Drinkwater  —  you  know,  our 
dear  rector  in  Xew  York  —  says  that  there  is  no  one  who 
does  more  for  the  poor,  or  who  takes  a  greater  interest 
in  the  church,  and  that  she  consults  him  upon  every- 


310  I  HI.     I  HIil.K    FATES. 

thing,  upon  every  point  of  duty  in  her  life —  it  is  spl.-n- 
did.  you  know.  I  D6T6I  knew  such  a  girl  —  and  then,  so 
clever!  A  Lady  Bountiful  and  a  Countess  Matilda  in 
one!  Only  —  no,  I  am  not  going  t«>  >ay  anything  against 
her.  IMM -aus.'  there  is  simply  nothing  to  be  said  — only  I 
r  ally  do  not  believe  that  she  is  the  wife  for  you,  dear 
boy.  I  do  nut  jMvtend  tn  suy  \vliv.  Tin-re  is  some  rea 
son,  some  subtle,  undetinable  reason  why  you  would  not 
suit  each  other.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  she  is 
vacillating  or  irresolute.  <  Mi  the  contrary,  her  sensitive 
conscience  is  one  of  the  great  beauties  of  her  character. 
Hut  I  have  always  not  iced  that  people  who  are  long  in 
deciding  anything  irritate  you.  Is  it  not  true?  Of  course 
I  cannot  understand  you.  (leorge,  but  I  sometimes  feel 
what  you  think,  almost  as  soon  as  you.  That  is  not 
exactly  what  I  mean,  but  you  understand.  That  is  one 
reason.  There  are  others,  no  doubt.  Do  you  know  what 
I  think?  1  believe  that  Constance  Fearing  ought  to 
marry  one  of  those  splendid  young  clergymen  one  hears 
about,  who  devote  their  lives  to  doing  good,  and  to  the 
poor  —  and  that  kind  of  thing." 

"  1  daresay,"  said  George,  as  Totty  paused.  The  idea 
was  new  to  him,  but  somehow  it  seemed  very  just.  "At 
all  events,"  he  added,  "she  ought  to  marry  a  better  man 
than  I  am." 

••  Not  better  —  as  good  in  a  different  way,"  suggested 
Totty.  "An  especially  good  man,  rather  than  an  espe 
cially  clever  i'li«-." 

"I  am  not  e^j.ecially  clever, "( ieorge  answered.  "I 
have  worked  harder  than  nm.xt  men  and  have  succeeded 
sooner.  That  is  all." 

"Of  course  it.  is  your  duty  to  he  modest  about  yourself. 
\\'c-  all  have  our  opinions.  Some  pi-ople  call  that  great 
ness —  nevermind.  The  principle  is  tin-  same.  Tell  me 
—  you  admire  her.  and  all  that,  but  you  do  not  honestly 
believe  that  you  and  she  are  suited  to  each  other,  do 
you?  " 

Totty  managed  her  voice  so  well  that  she  made  the 


THE   THREE   FATES.  311 

question  seem  natural,  and  not  at  all  offensive.  George 
considered  his  reply  for  a  moment  before  he  spoke. 

"I  think  you  are  right,"  he  said.  "We  are  not  suited 
to  each  other." 

Totty  breathed  more  freely,  for  the  moment  had  been 
a  critical  one. 

"  I  was  sure  of  it,  though  I  used  to  wish  it  had  been 
otherwise.  I  used  to  hope  that  you  would  marry  her, 
until  I  knew  you  both  better  — until  I  saw  there  was 
somebody  else  who  was  —  well  —  in  short,  who  loves  you 
better.  You  do  not  mind  my  saying  it." 

"  I  am  sorry  if  it  is  true '' 

"Why  should  you  be  sorry?  Could  anything  be  more 
natural?  I  should  think  that  a  man  would  be  very  glad 
and  very  happy  to  find  that  he  is  dearly  loved  by  a  thor 
oughly  nice  girl " 

"Yes,  if " 

"Xo!  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say.  If  he  loves 
her.  My  dear  George,  it  is  of  no  use  to  deny  it.  You 
do  love  Mamie.  Any  one  can  see  it,  though  she  would 
die  rather  than  have  me  think  that  she  believed  it.  I  do 
not  say  it  is  a  romantic  passion  and  all  that.  It  is  not. 
You  have  outgrown  that  kind  of  thing,  and  you  are  far 
too  sensible,  besides.  But  I  do  say  that  you  are  devotedly 
attached  to  her,  that  you  seek  her  society,  that  you  show 
how  much  you  like  to  be  alone  with  her  —  a  thousand 
things,  that  we  can  all  see." 

"  All "  referred  to  Totty  herself,  of  course,  but  George 
was  too  much  disturbed  to  notice  the  fact.  He  could 
find  nothing  to  say  and  Totty  continued. 

"  Xot  that  I  blame  you  in  the  least.  I  ought  to  blame 
myself  for  bringing  you  together.  I  should  if  I  were  not 
so  sure  that  it  is  the  best  thing  for  your  happiness  as 
well  as  for  Mamie's.  You  two  are  made  for  each  other, 
positively  made  for  each  other.  Mamie  is  not  beautiful, 
of  course  —  if  she  were  I  would  not  give  you  a  catalogue 
of  her  advantages.  She  is  not  rich  — 

"You  forget  that  T  have  only  my  profession,"  said 
George,  rather  sharply. 


812  TF?F    TFTREF.    F  LTBB. 

'•  P.nt  what  a  profession  —  besides  if  it  came  to  that,  WP 
should  always  wish  our  daughter  to  live  as  she  lias  been 
accustomed  to  live.  That  i>  not  tin-  question.  She  is  QOl 
beaut it'ul  and  she  is  not  rich.  l>ut  vou  cannot  <lmv  it, 
George,  she  lias  a  charm  of  her  own.  a  praco,  a  some 
thing  that  a  man  will  never  be  tired  of  because  In-  .-an 
never  find  out  just  what  it  is,  nor  just  where  it  lies. 
That  is  quite  true,  is  it  not?  " 

"Dear  cousin  Totty,  I  deny  nothing  — 

"No,  of  course  not!  You  cannot  deny  that,  .it  least  — 
and  then,  do  you  know?  You  have  the  very  same  thing 
yourself,  the  something  undetinable  that  a  woman  likes. 
Has  no  one  ever  told  you  that '/  " 

-  Xo  indeed! "  exclaimed  George,  laughing  a  little  in 
-pite  of  himself. 

"I  am  quite  serious,"  said  Totty.  "Mamie  and  you 
are  made  for  each  other.  There  can  be  no  doubt  about 
it,  any  more  than  there  can  be  alxmt  your  loving  each 
other,  each  in  your  own  way." 

"  If  it  were  in  the  same  way 

"It  is  not  so  different.  I  was  thinking  of  it  only  the 
other  day.  Suppose  that  .several  people  wen-  in  danger 
at  once  —  in  that  dreadful  river,  for  instance -—vou  would 
save  her  first." 

Geor-e  -lan.-ed  .sharply  at  his  cousin.  The  same  idea 
had  crossed  his  own  mind. 

••  How  do  you  know  that?"  he  asked. 
[fl  it  not* true?" 

"  5Te*  —  I  supjni.se    it    i.s.      I'.ut    I    cannot    imagine  how 

VOU    guessed  

"J>o  you  think   I  am  blind'.'"   a>ked    Tottv.  alnio 
dignantly.      "l>o  you    think    Mamie   does  not  know 
well  as  I  do'.'     After  all  these  months  of  devotion! 
must   think  me  very  dull — the  only  wonder   is   that  you 
>hoiild  not  yet   have  told  her  go." 

George  wondered  why  >he  took  it  for  granted  that  he 
had  not. 

"  What    I  s],,,i,hl  have  U)  tell  In 
-a\  .   as   it  ouu'ht   to  be  said."  he  ai 


THE   THREE  FATES.  313 

Totty 's  manner  changed  again  and  she  turned  her  head 
towards  him,  lowering  her  voice  and  speaking  in  a  tone 
of  sincere  sympathy. 

"  Oh,  I  know  how  hard  it  must  be!  "  she  said.  " Most 
of  all  for  you.  To  say,  'I  love  you,'  and  then  to  add,  'I 
do  not  love  you  in  the  same  way  as  I  once  loved  an 
other.'  But  then,  must  one  add  that?  Is  it  not  self- 
evident?  Ah  no!  There  is  no  love  like  the  first,  indeed 
there  is  not !  " 

Totty  sighed  deeply,  as  though  the  recollection  of  some 
long  buried  fondness  were  still  dear,  and  sweet  and  pain 
ful. 

"  And  yet,  one  does  love, "  she  continued  a  little  more 
cheerfully.  "  One  loves  again,  often  more  truly,  if  one 
knew  it,  and  more  sincerely  than  the  first  time.  It  is 
better  so  —  the  affection  of  later  years  is  happier  and 
brighter  and  more  lasting  than  that  other.  And  it  is  love, 
in  the  best  sense  of  the  word,  believe  me  it  is." 

If  there  had  been  the  least  false  note  of  insincerity  in 
her  voice,  George  would  have  detected  it.  But  what 
Totty  attempted  to  do,  she  did  well,  with  a  consummate 
appreciation  of  details  and  their  value  which  would  have 
deceived  a  keener  man  than  he.  Moreover,  he  himself 
was  in  great  doubt.  He  was  really  so  strongly  attracted 
by  Mamie  as  to  know  that  a  feather's  weight  would  turn 
the  scale.  But  for  the  recollection  of  Constance  he  would 
have  loved  her  long  ago  with  a  love  in  which  there  might 
have  been  more  of  real  passion  and  less  of  illusion. 
Mamie  was  in  many  ways  a  more  real  personage  in  his 
appreciation  than  Constance.  Totty  had  defined  the  dif 
ference  between  the  two  very  cleverly  by  what  she  had 
said.  The  more  he  thought  of  it,  the  more  ideal  Con 
stance  seemed  to  become. 

But  there  was  another  element  at  work  in  his  judg 
ment.  He  was  obliged  to  confess  that  Totty  was  right 
in  another  of  her  facts.  During  the  long  months  of  the 
summer  he  had  undoubtedly  acted  in  a  way  to  make  or 
dinary  people;  believe  that  he  loved  Mamie.  He  had 


314  THE    THREE   FATES. 

more  than  once  shown  that  In-  resented  Tott\  '- 

and  Totty  had  taken  tin-  hint  and  had  gom-  away,  with  a 

readiness   lie   only  underst 1    in»\v.       He    had   been    verv 

inueli  spoiled  by  her.  but  had  never  supposed  that  she 
desired  the  marriage.  It  liad  been  enough  for  him  t<» 
show  that  he  wished  to  talk  to  Mamie  without  interrup 
tion  and  he  had  been  immediately  humoured  as  he  was 
humoured  in  everything  in  that  charming  establishment. 
Totty,  however,  and,  of  course,  poor  Mamie  herself,  had 
put  an  especial  construction  upon  all  his  slightest  words 
and  gestures.  To  use  the  language  of  the  world,  he  had 
compromised  the  girl,  and  had  made  her  believe  that  he 
\vas  to  some  extent  in  love  with  her.  \vhieh  was  infinitely 
worse.  It  was  very  kind  of  Totty  to  he  so  taetf'ul  and 
diplomatic.  Honest  Sherry  Trimm  would  have  asked 
him  his  intentions  in  two  words  and  would  have  required 
an  answer  in  one,  a  mode  of  procedure  which  would  have 
been  far  less  agreeable. 

"You  owe  her  something,  George."  Totty  said  after  a 
long  pause.  "She  saved  your  life.  You  must  not  break 
her  heart  —  it  would  l>e  a  poor  return." 

"God  forbid!  Totty,  do  you  think  seriously  that  I 
have  acted  in  a  way  to  make  Mamie  believe  I  love 
her?  " 

"I  am  sure  you  have  —  she  knew  it  l«>ng  ago.  You 
need  hardly  tell  her.  she  ix  BO  sun-  of  it." 

"I  am  very  glad."  George  ;m>wered.  "  What  will 
OOOSill  Sherry  say  to  this?  " 

"Oli,  (Je<»rge!  How  can  you  ask'.'  \'oii  know  how 
fond  he  is  of  you  —  he  will  be  as  ghid  as  I  if " 

"There  shall  be  no  'it's,'"  George  intei'rupted.  "I 
will  ask  Mamie  to-morrow." 

He  had  made  up  his  mind,  for  he  detested  uncertain 
ties  of  all  BOrtt,  He  felt  that  however  he  mi^ht  compare 
Mamie  with  Constance,  he  wa>  on  the  verge  of  some  sort 
of  passion  for  the  former,  whereas  the  latter  represented 
something  never  to  be  realised,  something  which,  even 
if  offered  him  now.  he  could  not  accept  without  misgiv- 


THE   THREE    FATES.  315 

ings  and  doubts.  Since  he  had  made  Mamie  believe  that 
he  loved  her,  no  matter  how  unintentionally  the  result 
had  been  produced,  and  since  he  felt  that  he  could  love 
her  in  return,  and  be  faithful  to  her,  and,  lastly,  since 
her  father  and  mother  believed  that  the  happiness  of  her 
life  depended  upon  him,  it  seemed  most  honourable  to 
disappoint  no  one,  and  if  it  turned  out  that  he  was 
making  a  sacrifice  he  would  keep  it  to  himself  through 
out  his  natural  life. 

Totty  held  her  breath  for  a  moment  after  he  had  made 
his  statement,  fearing  lest  she  should  utter  some  invol 
untary  exclamation  of  delight,  too  great  even  for  the 
occasion.  Then  she  rose  and  came  to  his  side,  laid  her 
hands  upon  his  shoulders  and  touched  his  dark  forehead 
with  her  salmon-coloured  lips.  George  remembered  that 
a  humming-bird  had  once  brushed  his  face  with  its  wings, 
and  the  one  sensation  reminded  him  of  the  other. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear  son !  "  said  Totty  in  accents 
that  would  have  carried  the  conviction  of  sincerity  to  an 
angel's  heart. 

George  pressed  her  hand  warmly,  but  with  an  odd 
feeling  that  the  action  was  not  spontaneous.  He  felt  as 
though  he  were  doing  something  that  was  expected  of 
him,  and  was  doing  it  as  well  as  he  could,  without  en 
thusiasm.  He  looked  up  in  the  gloom  and  felt  that 
something  warm  fell  upon  his  face. 

"  Why,  cousin  Totty,  you  are  crying !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"Happy  tears,"  answered  Mrs.  Sherrington  Trimm  in 
a  voice  trembling  with  emotion.  Then  she  turned  and 
swiftly  entered  the  drawing-room,  leaving  him  alone  in 
the  verandah  in  the  darkness. 

"So  the  die  is  cast,  and  I  am  to  marry  Mamie,"  he 
thought,  as  soon  as  she  was  gone. 

In  the  first  moments  it  was  hard  to  realise  that  he  had 
bound  himself  by  an  engagement  from  which  he  could 
not  draw  back,  and  that  so  soon  after  he  had  broken  with 
Constance  Fearing.  Five  months  had  not  gone  by  since 
the  first  of  May,  since  he  had  believed  that  his  life  was 


316  THK    THKKK    FATES. 

ruined  ;md  his  heart  l>roken.  What  had  there  been  in 
his  love  for  Constance  which  ha<l  made  it  unreal  from 
first  to  laM.  real  only  in  the  moment  of  disappointment? 

Hi-  found  no  answer  to  the  question,  and  he  thought  of 

Mamie,  his  future  wife.  Yes,  Tntty  was  right.  So  far 
M  it  mU  ]"»>MMe  to  judge  they  were  suited  to  each 
other  in  all  respects  except  in  his  own  lack  of  fortune. 
"Suited  "  was  the  very  word.  He  would  never  feel  what 
ho  had  felt  for  the  other,  the  tenderness,  the  devotion, 
the  dependence  on  her  words  for  his  daily  happiness  —  he 
might  own  it  now,  the  sweet  fear  of  hurting  her  or  offend 
ing  her,  which  he  had  only  half  understood.  Constance 
had  dominated  him  (hiring  their  intercourse,  and  until  ho 
had  seen  her  real  weakness.  With  Mamie  it  would  ho 
different.  She  clung  to  him,  not  he  to  her.  She  looked 
up  to  him  as  a  superior,  he  could  never  worship  her  as 
an  idol.  He  was  to  oecupy  the  shrine  henceforth  and  he 
was  to  play  the  god  and  smile  upon  her  when  she  offered 
incense.  There  could  not  he  two  images  in  two  shrines, 
smiling  and  luirning  perfumes  at  each  other.  (Jeorge 
smiled  at  the  idea.  Hut  there  was  to  be  something  else, 
something  he  had  only  lately  begun  to  know.  He  was  to 
he  devotedly  loved  by  some  one.  tenderly  thought  of, 
tenderly  treated  by  one  who  now,  at  least,  held  the  first 
place  in  his  heart.  That  was  very  different  from  what 
he  had  hitherto  received,  the  perpetual  denial  of  love. 
the  repeated  assurances  of  friendship.  He  thought  of 
that  wonderful  expression  which  lie  had  seen  two  or 
three  times  on  Mamie's  face,  and  he  was  happy.  There 
was  nothing  he  would  not  do.  nothing  he  would  not 
sacrifice  tor  the  sake  of  reeeiving  such  love  as  that. 

He  slept  peaeetully  through  the  night,  undisturbed  by 
visions  of  future  trouble  or  dreams  of  coining  disappoint 
ment.  Nor  had  his  mood  changed  when  he  awoke  in  the 
morning  and  ga/ed  through  the  open  windows  at  the 
trees  beyond  the  river,  where  Constance's  house  was 
hidden.  \Vonld  Constance  be  sorrv  to  hear  the  news'.' 
J'robablv  not.  She  would  meet  him  with  renewed  offers 


THE   THREE   FATES.  317 

of  eternal  friendship,  and  would  in  all  probability  come 
to  the  wedding.  She  had  never  felt  anything  for  him. 
His  lip  curled  scornfully  as  he  turned  away. 

Early  in  the  morning  Totty  entered  her  daughter's 
room.  There  was  nothing  extraordinary  in  the  visit,  and 
Mamie,  who  was  doing  her  hair,  did  not  look  round, 
though  she  greeted  her  mother  with  a  word  of  welcome. 
Totty  kissed  her  with  unwonted  tenderness,  even  con 
sidering  that  she  was  usually  demonstrative  in  her 
affections. 

"  Dear  child, "  she  said,  "  I  just  came  in  to  see  how  you 
had  slept.  You  need  not  go  away,"  she  added,  address 
ing  the  maid.  "  You  are  a  little  pale,  Mamie.  But  then 
you  always  are  and  it  is  becoming  to  you.  What  shall 
you  wear  to-day?  It  is  very  warm  again  —  you  might 
put  on  white,  almost." 

"Conny  Fearing  always  wears  white,"  Mamie  an 
swered. 

"  Why,  she  is  in  mourning  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Trimm 
with  some  solemnity. 

"Is  she?  For  her  brother-in-law?  Well,  she  always 
did,  which  is  the  same  thing,  exactly.  She  had  on  a 
white  frock  on  the  day  of  the  accident.  I  can  see  her 
now!" 

"Oh  then,  by  all  means  wear  something  else,"  said 
Totty  with  alacrity.  "You  might  try  that  striped  flan 
nel  costume  —  or  the  skirt  with  a  blouse,  you  know. 
That  is  new." 

"No,"  said  Mamie  with  great  decision.  "I  do  not 
believe  it  is  warm  at  all  and  I  mean  to  wear  my  blue 
serge." 

"Well,"  answered  Mrs.  Trimm,  "perhaps  it  is  the 
most  becoming  thing  you  have." 

"Positively,  mamma,  I  have  not  a  thing  to  wear!" 
exclaimed  Mamie,  by  sheer  force  of  habit. 

"  I  am  sure  I  have  not, "  answered  her  mother  with  a 
laugh. 

"Oh  you,  mamma!     You  have  lots  of  things." 


318  THE  THREE   FATES. 

Totty  did  not  go  away  until  she  had  assured  herself 
that  Mamie  was  at  her  best.  She  knew  that  it  would 
have  been  folly  to  give  tin-  girl  any  warning  of  what  was 
about  to  take  place,  and  she  was  a  wan*  that  Mamie's 
taste  in  dros  was  .-veil  better  than  her  own,  but  she  had 
been  unable  t<-  n-M-t  tin-  desire  to  >«•»•  her  and  to  go  OTW 
in  her  own  In-art  tin-  circum>tances  of  her  triumph.  She 
knew  also  that  Mamie  would  never  forgive  her  it'  >li«- 
should  di>eover  that  her  mother  had  known  of  George's 
intention  before  George  had  communicated  it  to  herself. 
but  it  seemed  very  hard  to  be  obliged  to  wait  even  a  few 
hours  before  >ho\ving  her  intense  satisfaction  at  th»- 
rrxiilt  <>\  ln-r  diplniuac\  . 

During  bn-akfast  she  was  unusually  clnM-rful  and  talk 
ative.  wlnT.M-  (ieorge  was  exceptionally  silent  and  spok'- 
with  an  evident  effort.  Mamie  herself  had  to  some 
extent  recovered  her  spirits,  though  she  was  very  much 
ashamed  of  having  made  such  an  exhibition  of  her 
feelings  on  the  previous  evening.  She  offered  a  lame 
explanation,  saying  that  she  had  telt  suddenly  cold  and 
had  run  up  to  her  room  to  get  something  warmer  to  put 
on;  seeing  it  was  so  late,  she  had  not  thought  it  worth 
while  to  eonie  down  again.  Then  she  changed  the  sub 
ject  as  quickly  as  she  could  and  was  admirably  seconded 
by  her  mother  in  her  efforts  to  make  conversation. 
George's  face  betrayed  nothing.  It  was  impossible  to 
whether  he  li.dieved  her  story  or  not. 

"I  suppoM-  you  are  going  to  work  all  the  morning." 
Bnred  Mr>.  Trimm  as  they  (066  from  the  table. 

"I  am  not  >ure,"  George  answered,  looking  steadily  at 
her  fora  se.-i.nd.  "At  all  events  I  will  have  a  turn  in 
the  garden  before  I  set  to.  \Yill  you  come.  Mamie?" 
he  asked,  turning  to  his  cousin. 

For  some  minutes  they  walked  away  from  the  house  in 
silence.  GfoOTgC  wa>  embarrassed  and  had  not  made  up 
his  mind  what  he  should  >a\ .  He  did  not  look  at  his 
MXlftin'l  Eaoe,  but  as  he  glam-.-d  down  before  him  lie  was 
CODBoiovti  of  her  graceful  movement  at  his  side.  Verfect 


THE  THREE   FATES.  319 

motion  had  always  had  an  especial  charm  for  him,  and  at 
the  present  moment  he  was  glad  to  be  charmed.  Pres 
ently  they  found  themselves  in  a  shady  place  beneath 
certain  old  trees,  out  of  sight  of  the  garden.  George 
stopped  suddenly,  and  Mamie  stopping  also,  looked  at 
him  in  some  little  surprise. 

"  Mamie, "  he  said,  in  the  best  voice  he  could  find,  "  do 
you  love  me?" 

"Better  than  anything  in  the  world,"  answered  the 
young  girl.  Her  lips  grew  slowly  white  and  there  was 
a  startled  look  in  her  fearless  grey  eyes. 

"You  saved  my  life.  Will  you  take  it  —  and  keep 
it?" 

He  looked  to  her  for  an  answer.  A  supreme  joy  came 
into  her  face,  then  shivered  like  a  broken  mirror  under 
a  blow,  and  gave  way  to  an  agonised  fear. 

"  Oh,  do  not  laugh  at  me !  "  she  cried,  in  broken  and 
beseeching  tones. 

"Laugh  at  you,  dear?  God  forbid!  I  am  asking  you 
to  be  my  wife." 

"Oh  no!  It  is  not  true  —  you  do  not  love  me  —  it 
never  can  be  true !  "  But  as  she  spoke,  the  day  of  hap 
piness  dawned  again  in  her  eyes  —  as  a  summer  sun  ris 
ing  through  a  sweet  shower  of  raindrops  —  and  broke 
and  flooded  all  her  face  with  gladness. 

"I  love  you,  and  it  is  quite  true,"  he  answered. 

The  girl  had  for  months  concealed  the  great  passion  of 
her  life  as  well  as  she  could;  she  had  borne,  with  all 
the  patience  she  could  command,  the  daily  bitter  disap 
pointment  of  finding  him  always  the  same  towards  her; 
she  had  suffered  much  and  had  hidden  her  sufferings 
bravely,  but  the  sudden  happiness  was  more  than  she 
could  control.  As  he  held  her  in  his  arms,  he  felt  her 
weight  suddenly  as  though  she  had  fallen,  and  he  saw 
her  eyelids  droop  and  her  long  straight  lips  part  slowly 
over  her  gleaming  teeth.  She  was  not  beautiful,  and  he 
knew  it  as  he  looked  at  her  white  unconscious  face. 
But  she  loved  him  as  he  had  never  been  loved  before,  and 


8 'JO  THK    THUKK    FATES. 

in  that  moment  he  loved  her  also.  Supporting  her  with 
one  arm,  he  held  up  her  head  with  his  other  hand  and 
kissed  her  again  and  again,  with  a  passion  he  had  never 
felt.  Very  .slowly  the  colour  returned  to  her  lips,  and 
then  her  eyes  opened.  .There  was  no  surprise  in  them, 
for  she  was  hardly  conscious  that  >he  had  fainted. 

"Have  I  been  long  so?''  she  asked  faintly  as  the  look 
of  life  and  joy  came  hark. 

"Only  a  moment,  darling,"  he  answered. 

"  And  it  is  to  be  so  for  ever  —  oh,  it  is  too  much,  too 
good,  too  great.  How  can  I  believe  so  much  in  one 
day?" 

It  was  long  before  they  turned  baek  again  towards  tin- 
house.  The  sun  rose  higher  and  higher,  and  tin-  win 
nowed  light  fell  upon  them  th rough  the  leaves  reddened 
liy  the  autumn  colours  that  were  already  spreading  over 
the  woods,  from  tree  to  tree,  from  branch  to  branch,  from 
leaf  to  leaf,  like  one  long  sunset  lasting  many  days. 
Hut  they  sat  side  by  side  not  heeding  the  climbing  sun 
nor  the  march  of  the  noiseless  hours.  Their  soft  voices 
mingled  lovingly  with  each  other  and  with  the  murmur 
of  the  scarcely  stirring  breeze.  Very  reluctantly  they 
ro>e  at  last  to  return,  their  arms  twined  about  each  other 
until  they  saw  the  gables  of  the  house  rising  above  them 
out  of  the  rich  muss  of  red,  and  orange,  and  yellow,  and 
brown,  and  green  that  crowned  the  maples,  the  oaks  and 
the  sycamores.  One  last  long  kiss  under  the  shade, 
and  they  were  out  upon  the  hard  brown  earth  of  the 
drive,  in  sight  of  the  windows,  walking  civilly  side  by 
side  with  the  distance  of  half  a  pact-  between  them. 
Totty,  the  discreet,  had  watched  for  them  until  she  had 
•  •aught  a  glinij.se  of  their  figures  through  the  shrubben 
and  had  then  retired  within  to  await  the  joyful  ne\\s. 

Mamie  disappeared  as  soon  as  th»-\  entered  the  house, 
glad  to  be  alone  if  she  could  imt  be  \\iih  the  man  she 
loved.  |iut  (leorge  went  straight  to  her  mother  in  the 
little  morning-room  where  she  ^'iM-rally  sat.  She  looked 
up  from  her  \\riting,  as  though  she  had  been  long 


THE   THREE    FATES.  321 

absorbed  in  it,  then  suddenly  smiled  and  held  out  her 
hand.  George  pressed  it  with  more  sincerity  than  he 
had  been  able  to  find  for  the  same  demonstration  of 
friendliness  on  the  previous  evening. 

"I  am  very  glad  I  took  your  advice,"  he  said.  "I  am 
a  very  happy  man.  Mamie  has  accepted  me." 

"Has  she  taken  the  whole  morning  to  make  up  her 
mind  about  so  simple  a  matter?"  asked  Totty  archly. 

"Well,  not  all  the  morning,"  George  answered.  "We 
had  one  or  two  ideas  to  exchange  afterwards.  Totty  — 
no,  I  cannot  call  my  mother-in-law  Totty,  it  is  too 
absurd!  Cousin  Charlotte  —  will  that  do?  Very  well, 
cousin  Charlotte,  you  must  telegraph  for  Sherry's  —  I  beg 
ins  pardon,  for  Mr.  Trimm's  consent.  Where  is  he?  " 

"  Here  —  see  for  yourself, "  said  Totty  holding  up  to 
his  eyes  a  sheet  of  paper  on  which  was  written  a  short 
cable. 

"  Trimm.  Carlsbad,  Bohemia.  Mamie  engaged  George 
Wood.  Wire  consent.  Totty." 

"You  see  how  sure  I  was  of  her.  I  wrote  this  while 
you  were  out  there  —  it  is  true,  you  gave  me  time." 

"Sure  of  her,  and  of  your  husband,"  said  George,  sur 
prised  by  the  form  of  the  message. 

"Oh,  I  have  no  doubts  about  him,"  answered  Mrs. 
Trimm  with  a  light  laugh.  "He  thinks  you  are  perfec 
tion,  you  know." 

The  reply  came  late  that  night,  short,  sharp  and  busi 
ness-like. 

" Fix  wedding-day.     Returning.     Sherry." 

It  was  read  by  Totty  with  a  sort  of  delirious  scream 
of  triumph,  the  first  genuine  expression  she  had  per 
mitted  herself  since  her  efforts  had  been  crowned  with 
success. 

"It  is  too  good  to  be  believed,"  said  Mamie  aloud,  as 
she  laid  her  head  on  the  pillow. 

"I  would  never  have  believed  it,"  said  George  thought 
fully,  as  he  turned  from  his  open  window  where  he  had 
been  standing  an  hour. 

Y 


$22  THE   THKEE   FA  1  I  - 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

"We  had  better  say  untiring  about  it  for  the  present," 
said  Totty  to  George  on  the  following  day.  u  It  will 
only  cause  complication*,  and  it  will  be  much  easier 
when  we  an-  all  in  town." 

The  two  were  seated  together  in  the  little  morniiig- 
room,  discussing  the  future  and  telling  over  what  had 
happened.  George  was  in  a  frame  of  mind  which  he 
did  not  recognise,  and  he  seemed  laughable  in  his  own 
eyes,  though  he  was  far  fn>m  being  unhappy.  His  sin- 
prise  at  the  turn  events  had  taken  had  not  yet  worn  off 
and  he  could  not  help  being  amused  at  himself  for  hav 
ing  known  his  own  mind  so  little.  At  the  saint-  time  he 
was  grateful  to  Totty  for  the  part  she  had  played  and 
was  ready  to  yield  to  all  her  wishes  in  the  matter.  AYith 
regard  to  announcing  the  engagement,  she  told  him  that 
it  was  quite  unnecessary  to  do  so  yet,  and  that,  among 
other  reasons,  it  would  be  better  in  the  eyes  of  the  world 
to  publish  the  social  banns  after  Sherringtnn  had  returned 
from  abroad.  Moreover,  if  the  engagement  were  made 
known  at  once,  it  would  be  in  accordance  with  custom 
that  George  should  leave  the  house  and  find  a  lodging  in 
the  nearest  town. 

"I  cannot  tell  why,  1  am  sure."  said  M  r>.  Trimm. 
"but  it  is  always  done,  and  1  should  be  so  sorry  if  you 
had  to  leave  us  just  now." 

"It  would  not  be  pleasant."  George  answered,  thought 
fully.  He  had  wished  to  inform  Constance  as  soon  as 
possible. 

So  the  matter  was  deeided,  somewhat  to  his  dissatis 
faction  in  «'iir  respeet.  but  quite  in  accordance  with  his 
inclinations  in  all  others.  And  it  was  thereupon  further 
agreed  that  as  .scum  as  the  weather  permitted,  they  would 
all  return  to  toun.  and  make  active  preparat  ioii>  lor  the 
\\edding.  Totty  could  see  no  reason  whatever  why  the 


THE   THKEE   FATES.  323 

day  should  not  be  fixed  early  in  November.  She  de 
clared  emphatically  that  she  hated  long  engagements, 
and  that  in  this  case  especially  there  could  be  no  object 
in  putting  off  the  marriage.  She  assured  Mamie  that 
by  using  a  little  energy  everything  could  be  made  ready 
in  plenty  of  time,  and  she  promised  that  there  should  be 
no  hitch  in  the  proceedings. 

The  week  that  followed  the  events  last  narrated 
slipped  pleasantly  and  quickly  away.  As  George  had 
said  at  once,  he  was  a  very  happy  man;  that  is  to  say, 
he  believed  himself  to  be  so,  because  the  position  in 
which  he  found  himself  was  new,  agreeable  and  highly 
nattering  to  his  vanity.  He  could  not  but  believe  that  he 
was  taken  into  the  family  of  his  cousin  solely  on  his  own 
merits.  Being  in  total  ignorance  of  the  fortune  between 
which  and  himself  the  only  barrier  was  the  enfeebled 
health  of  an  invalid  old  man,  he  very  naturally  attrib 
uted  Totty's  anxiety  to  see  him  marry  her  daughter  to 
the  causes  she  enumerated.  He  was  still  modest  enough 
to  feel  that  he  was  being  very  much  overrated,  and  to 
fear  lest  he  might  some  day  prove  a  disappointment  to 
his  future  wife  and  her  family;  for  the  part  of  the 
desirable  young  man  was  new  to  him,  and  he  did  not 
know  how  he  should  acquit  himself  in  the  performance 
of  it.  But  the  delicious  belief  that  he  was  loved  for 
himself,  as  he  was,  gave  energy  to  his  good  resolutions 
and  maintained  at  a  genial  warmth  the  feelings  he  enter 
tained  for  her  who  loved  him. 

He  must  not  be  judged  too  harshly.  In  offering  to 
marry  Mamie,  he  had  felt  that  he  was  doing  his  duty  as 
an  honourable  man,  and  he  assured  himself  as  well  as  he 
could  that  he  was  able  to  promise  the  most  sincere  affec 
tion  and  unchanging  fidelity  in  return  for  her  passionate 
love.  It  was  in  one  respect  a  sacrifice,  for  it  meant  that 
he  must  act  in  contradiction  to  the  convictions  of  his 
whole  life.  He  had  always  believed  in  love,  and  he  had 
frequently  preached  that  true  and  mutual  passion  was 
the  only  foundation  for  lasting  happiness  in  marriage. 


'  THI-:  THKKI:   FATKS. 

At  the  moment  of  acceding  to  Mrs.  Trinnn's  very 
•  dearly  expressed  proposal.  (Jeorge  had  felt  that  Mamie 
would  be  to  him  hereafter  what  she  had  always  been 
hitherto,  neither  more  nor  le>-.  lit-  did  imt  -wish  to 
marry  her,  and  it'  he  agreed  t«»  do  BO,  it  was  because  he 
was  assured  that  her  happiness  depended  upon  it,  and 

that  he  bad  made  himself  responsible  lor  her  happiness 

by  his  conduct  towards  her.  Being  oner  persuaded  of 
this,  and  assured  that  lit-  alone  h;id  done  tin-  mischief, 
he  was  chivalrous  enough  to  have  married  the  girl. 
though  she  had  been  ugly,  ill-educated  and  poor,  instead 
ot  being  rich,  refined  and  full  of  charm,  and  to  all  out 
ward  appearances  he  would  have  married  her  with  as 
good  .1  4  race  and  would  have  behaved  towards  her  after 
wards  with  as  much  consideration  as  though  he  had 
loved  her.  But  the  fact  that  Mamie  possessed  BO  many 
real  and  undeniable  graces  and  advantages  had  made  the 
sacrifice  seem  singularly  easy,  and  the  twenty-four  hours 
that  succeeded  the  moment  of  forming  the  resolution. 
had  sufficed  to  destroy  the  idea  of  .sacrifice  altogether. 
Hitherto,  George  had  fought  again>t  tin-  belief  that  he 
was  loved,  and  had  done  his  be>t  to  laugh  at  it.  Now. 
he  was  at  liberty  to  accept  that  belief  and  to  make  it  one 
of  the  chief  pleasures  of  his  thoughts.  It  flattered  his 
heart,  as  Totty's  prnlo-M-d  appreciation  of  his  tine  Dual 
ities  flattered  his  intelligence.  In  noble  natures  flatten 
produces  a  strong  desire  to  acquit  the  debt  which  >eem> 
to  be  created  by  the  acceptance  of  undue  praise.  Men 
of  such  temper  do  not  like  to  receive  and  give  nothing  in 
return,  nor  can  they  bear  to  l>e  thought  braver,  more 
generous  or  more  gifted  than  they  an-.  l'"^<'-sing  that 
high  form  of  self-esteem  which  i>  honourable  pride.  the\ 
feel  all  the  necessity  of  being  in  their  own  eyes  worth\ 
of  the  otimat  ion  they  enjoy  in  the  opinion  of  other  men. 
The  hatred  of  all  false  positions  is  .strong  in  them  and 
they  are  not  quick  to  believe  that  they  are  ju.stly  valued 
by  the  world. 

<icoi-ge    found    it  easy    to    imagine    that    lie    loved   the 


THE  THKEE   FATES.  325 

young  girl,  when  he  had  once  admitted  the  fact  that  she 
loved  him.  It  was  indeed  the  pleasantest  deception  he 
had  ever  submitted  to,  or  encouraged  himself  in  accept 
ing.  He  hid  from  himself  the  fact  that  his  heart  had 
never  been  satisfied,  considering  that  it  was  better  to 
take  the  realities  of  a  brilliant  future  than  to  waste  time 
and  sentiment  in  dreaming  of  illusions.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  gained  by  weighing  the  undeveloped  capa 
bilities  of  his  affections  against  the  manifestations  of 
them  which  had  hitherto  been  thrust  upon  his  notice. 
He  was  doing  what  he  believed  to  be  best  for  every  one 
as  well  as  for  himself,  and  no  good  could  come  of  a 
hypercriticism  of  his  sensibilities.  Mamie  was  supremely 
happy,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  feel  that  he  was  at  once 
the  cause  and  the  central  figure  in  her  happiness.  The 
course  of  true  love  should  run  pleasantly  for  her  at  least, 
and  its  course  would  not  be  hard  for  him  to  follow. 

A  fortnight  passed  before  he  thought  of  fulfilling  his 
promise  and  visiting  Grace.  The  attraction  was  not 
great,  but  he  felt  a  certain  curiosity  to  know  how  she 
was  recovering  from  the  shock  she  had  sustained.  Once 
more  he  crossed  the  river  and  walked  up  the  long  avenue 
to  the  old  house.  As  lie  was  passing  through  the  garden 
he  unexpectedly  came  upon  Constance,  who  was  wander 
ing  idly  through  the  deserted  walks. 

"  It  is  so  long  since  we  have  met !  "  she  exclaimed, 
with  an  intonation  of  gladness,  as  she  put  out  her  hand. 

"Yes,"  George  answered.  "I  came  once  to  see  your 
sister,  but  you  were  not  with  her.  How  is  she?  " 

"She  is  well  —  as  well  as  any  one  could  expect.  I 
have  tried  to  persuade  her  to  go  away,  but  she  will  not, 
though  I  am  sure  it  is  bad  for  her  to  stay  here." 

"  But  you  cannot  stay  for  ever.  It  is  already  autumn 
—  it  will  soon  be  winter." 

"I  cannot  tell,"  Constance  answered  indifferently 
enough.  "  I  confess  that  I  care  very  little  whether  we 
pass  the  winter  here  or  in  town,  provided  Grace  is  con 
tented." 


B26  MIL    IHKKI:   KATES. 

"  You  ought  to  consider  \  ourselt'  to  some  extent.  You 
look  tired,  and  you  must  weary  of  all  this  sadness  and 
dismal  solitude.  It  stands  to  reason  that  you  should 
need  a  change." 

" No  change  would  make  any  dit'teivnce  to  me,"  said 
Constance,  walking  slowly  along  the  path  and  swinging 
her  parasol  slowly  from  side  tu  side. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  are  ill?"  George  asked. 

"No  indeed!  I  ain  never  really  ill.  But  it  is  a  \\  aste 
of  breath  to  talk  of  such  things.  Come  into  the  house. 
Grace  will  be  so  glad  to  see  you;  she  has  U-.-n  anticipat 
ing  your  visit  for  a  long  time." 

"  Presently,"  said  George.  "The  afternoons  are  still 
long  and  it  is  pleasant  here  in  the  garden." 

"Do  you  want  to  talk  to  me?"  asked  the  young  girl, 
with  the  slightest  intonation  of  irony. 

"I  wish  to  tell  you  something  —  something  that  will 
surprise  you." 

"  I  am  not  easily  surprised.     Is  it  about  yourself?  " 

4<  Yes  —  it  is  not  announced  yet,  but  I  want  you  to 
know  it.  You  will  tell  no  one,  of  course.  I  am  going  to 
be  married." 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  Constance,  with  a  slight  start. 

"Yes.  I  am  sure  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  it.  I  am 
engaged  to  be  married  to  my  cousin,  Mamie  Trimm." 

Constance  was  looking  so  ill,  already,  that  it  could  not 
be  said  that  she  turned  pale  at  the  aimouneement.  She 
walked  quietly  on.  ga/int,'  hrt'mv  her  .steadily  at  M, me  dis 
tant  object. 

"It  is  rather  Midden,  I  suppose. "  said  ( ieorge  in  a  tone 
ihat  sounded  unpleasantly  apologetic  in  his  own  MM. 

"Rather,"   Constance  answered  with  an  ettort.     ••  I 

confess   that    I    am   astonished.       You    have  my   IM-M   ODD 

gratolation*." 

She  paused,  and  reflected  that  her  words  were  \ei\ 
cold.  She  felt  an  odd  chill  in  herself  as  well  as  in  her 
language,  and  tried  to  shake  it  off. 

"It  \ou  are  happ\.  I  am  \.-r\  glad."  she  said.  "It 
was  not  what  1  expected,  but  I  am  very  glad." 


THE   THREE    FATES.  327 

"Thanks.  But,  Constance,  what  did  you  expect  — 
something  very  different?  Why?" 

"Nothing  —  nothing  —  it  is  very  natural,  of  course. 
When  are  you  to  be  married? "  All  the  coldness  had 
returned  to  her  voice  as  she  put  the  question. 

"  I  believe  it  is  to  be  in  November.  It  will  certainly 
be  before  Christmas.  Mr.  Trimm  is  expected  to-morrow 
or  the  next  day.  He  cabled  his  consent." 

"  Yes  ?  Well,  I  am  glad  it  has  all  gone  so  smoothly.  I 
feel  cold  —  is  it  not  chilly  here  ?  Let  us  go  in  and  find 
Grace." 

She  began  to  walk  more  quickly  and  in  a  few  moments 
they  reached  the  house,  not  having  exchanged  any  fur 
ther  words.  As  they  entered  the  door  she  stopped  and 
turned  to  her  companion. 

"  Grace  is  in  the  drawing-room, "  she  said.  "  She  wants 
to  see  you  alone  —  so,  good-bye.  I  hope  with  all  my 
heart  that  you  will  be  happy  —  my  dear  friend.  Good 
bye." 

She  turned  and  left  him  standing  in  the  great  hall. 
He  watched  her  retreating  figure  as  she  entered  the 
staircase  which  led  away  to  the  right.  He  had  expected 
something  different  in  her  reception  of  the  news,  and  did 
not  know  whether  to  feel  disappointed  or  not.  She  had 
received  the  announcement  with  very  great  calmness,  so 
far  as  he  could  judge.  That  at  least  was  a  satisfaction. 
He  did  not  wish  to  have  his  equanimity  disturbed  at 
present  by  any  great  exhibition  of  feeling  on  the  part  of 
any  one  but  himself.  As  he  opened  the  door  before  him 
he  wondered  whether  Constance  were  really  glad  or  sorry 
to  learn  that  he  was  to  be  married. 

Grace  rose  and  came  towards  him.  He  could  not  help 
thinking  that  she  looked  like  a  beautiful  figure  of  fate 
as  she  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  held  out  her 
hand  to  take  his.  She  seemed  taller  and  more  imposing 
since  her  husband's  death  and  there  was  something  in 
teresting  in  her  face  which  had  not  been  there  in  old 
times,  a  look  of  greater  strength,  combined  with  a  pro- 


328  THE   THREE    FATES. 

found  sadness,  which  would  have  attracted  the  attention 
of  any  student  of  humanity. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  —  it  is  so  good  of  you  to 
COmc,"  sin-  .slid. 

"I  could  not  <lo  less,  since  I  had  promised —  even 
apart  from  tin-  pleasure  it  gives  me  to  see  you.  I  met 
your  sister  in  tin-  garden.  She  told  me  she  hoped  that 
you  would  be  induced  to  go  :i\vay  I'm-  a  time." 

(Jrace  shook  her  liead. 

••  Why  should  I  go  away?''  she  asked.  "I  am  less 
unhappy  here  than  I  should  l»e  anywhere  else.  There  is 
nothing  to  take  me  to  any  other  place.  \Yhv  not  stay 
here?" 

"  It  would  he  Letter  t<>r  you  both.  Your  sister  is  not- 
looking  u'ell.  Indeed  I  was  shocked  by  the  change  in 

her." 

"Really?  Poor  child!  It  is  not  gay  for  her.  I  am 
very  poor  company.  You  thought  she  was  changed, 
then?" 

"Very  much,"  George  answered,  thoughtfully. 

"  And  it  is  a  long  time  since  you  have  seen  her.  Poor 
Constance!  It  will  end  in  my  going  away  for  her  sake 
rather  than  my  own.  I  wonder  what  would  be  best  for 
her,  after  all." 

"A  journey  —  a  change  of  some  sort,"  George  sug 
gested.  He  found  it  very  hard  to  talk  with  the  heart 
broken  young  widow,  though  lie  could  not  help  admiring 
her,  and  wondering  how  long  it  would  l>e  before  she  took 
another  hii>band. 

"No."  <  I  rare  aiis-Aeivd.  -That  is  not  all.  She  is  un 
settled,  uncertain  in  all  she  dors.  If  she  goes  on  in  this 
way  she  will  turn  into  one  of  those  morbid,  introspective 
women  who  do  nothing  but  imagine  that  tln-v  have  com 
mitted  great  sins  and  are  never  sat istied  with  their  own 
repentance." 

"She  is  too  sensible  for  that  ' 

"  Xo.  she  is  unt  sensible,  where  her  conscience  is  con- 
•erned.  I  wish  some  one  would  come  and  take  her  out 


THE   THREE    FATES.  329 

of  herself  —  some  one  strong,  enthusiastic,  who  would 
shake  her  mind  and  heart  free  of  all  this  nonsense." 

"In  other  words,"  said  George  with  a  smile,  "you 
wish  that  your  sister  would  marry." 

"  Yes,  if  she  would  marry  the  right  man  —  a  man  like 
you.'' 

"Like  me!  "  George  exclaimed  in  great  surprise. 

"  Yes  —  since  I  have  said  it.  I  did  not  mean  to  tell 
you  so.  T  wish  she  would  marry  you  after  all.  You  will 
say  that  I  am  capricious  and  you  will  laugh  at  the  way 
in  which  I  have  changed  my  mind.  I  admit  it.  I  made 
a  mistake.  I  misjudged  you.  If  it  were  all  to  be  lived 
over  again,  instead  of  paying  no  attention  to  what  hap 
pened,  as  I  did  during  the  last  year,  I  would  make  her 
marry  you.  It  would  have  been  much  better.  I  made  a 
great  mistake  in  letting  her  alone." 

"I  had  never  expected  to  hear  you  say  that,"  said 
George,  looking  into  her  brown  eyes  and  trying  to  read 
her  thoughts. 

"  I  am  not  given  to  talking  about  myself,  as  you  may 
have  noticed,  but  I  once  told  you  that  my  only  virtue  was 
honesty.  What  I  think,  I  say,  if  there  is  any  need  of 
saying  anything.  I  told  you  that  I  never  hated  you, 
and  it  is  quite  true.  I  disliked  you  and  I  did  not  want 
you  for  a  brother-in-law.  In  the  old  days,  more  than  a 
year  ago,  Constance  and  I  used  to  quarrel  about  you. 
She  admired  everything  you  did,  and  I  saw  no  reason  to 
do  so.  That  was  before  you  published  your  first  book, 
when  you  used  to  write  so  many  articles  in  the  maga 
zines.  She  thought  them  all  perfection,  and  I  thought 
some  of  them  were  trash  and  I  said  so.  I  daresay  you 
think  it  is  not  very  complimentary  of  me  to  tell  you 
what  I  think  and  thought.  Perhaps  it  is  not.  There  is 
no  reason  why  I  should  make  compliments  after  what  I 
have  said.  You  have  written  much  that  I  have  liked 
since,  and  you  have  made  a  name  for  yourself.  My 
judgment  may  be  worthless,  but  those  who  can  judge 
have  told  me  that  some  things  you  have  done  will  live. 


330  THE   THREE    FATES. 

But  that  is  not  the  reason  why  I  have  changed  my  mind 
about  you.  If  you  were  still  writing  those  absurd  little 
notices  in  the  papers.  I  should  think  just  as  well  of  you, 
yourself,  as  I  do  now.  You  are  not  what  I  thought  you 
were  —  a  clever,  rather  weak,  vain  creature  without  the 
strength  of  being  enthusiastic,  nor  the  courage  to  in- 
cynical.  That  is  exactly  what  I  thought.  You  will  for- 
give  me  if  I  tell  you  so  frankly,  will  you  not?  I  found 
out  that  you  are  strong,  brave  and  honourable.  I  do  m«t 
expect  that  you  will  ever  think  again  of  marrying  my 
sister,  but  if  you  do  I  shall  be  glad,  and  if  \<>u  do  not, 
I  shall  always  he  sorry  that  I  did  not  use  all  my  influ 
ence  in  making  ( 'onstance  accept  you.  That  is  a  long 
speech,  but  every  word  of  it  is  true,  and  I  am  glad  I 
have  told  you  just  what  I  think." 

George  was  silent  for  some  seconds.  There  were  u- 
suredly  many  people  in  the  world  from  whom  he  would 
have  resented  such  an  exposition  of  opinion  in  regard  to 
himself.  But  Grace  was  not  one  of  these.  lie  respected 
her  judgment  in  a  way  he  could  not  explain,  and  he  felt 
that  all  she  had  said  continued  his  own  ideas  about  her 

character. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  told  me."  he  answen-d  at  length. 
"I  have  changed  my  mind  about  y«»u,  too.  I  used  to  feel 
that  you  were  the  opposing  barrier  between  your  sister 
and  me.  and  that  but  for  yon  we  should  have  1 n  hap 
pily  married  long  ago.  I  hated  you  accordingly,  with  a 
tine  unreasoning  hatred.  You  were  very  frank  with  me 
u  lien  you  came  to  give  me  her  decision.  I  believed  you 
at  the  moment,  but  when  I  was  out  of  the  house  I  hc-an 
to  think  that  you  had  arranged  the  whole  thing  bet. 
you,  and  that  you  were  the  moving  power.  It  was 
natural  enough,  but  my  common  sense  told  me  that  T 
was  wrong  within  a  month  of  the  time.  I  have  liked 

your  frankness,  in  my  heart,  all  along.      It  has  1 n  the 

best  thing  in  the  whole  business." 

"  You  and  I  understand  each  other."  said  Grace,  lean 
ing  back  in  her  seat  and  watching  his  dark  face  from 


THE   THREE   FATES.  331 

beneath  her  heavy,  drooping  lids.  "It  is  strange.  I 
never  thought  we  should,  and  until  lately  I  never  thought 
it  would  be  pleasant  if  we  did. " 

George  was  struck  by  the  familiarity  of  her  tone.  She 
had  always  been  the  person  of  all  others  who  had  treated 
him  with  the  most  distant  civility,  and  whose  phrases  in 
speaking  with  him  had  been  the  coldest  and  the  most 
carefully  chosen.  He  had  formerly  wondered  how  her 
voice  would  sound  if  she  were  suddenly  to  say  something 
friendly. 

"  You  are  very  good, "  he  answered  presently.  "  With 
regard' to  the  rest  —  to  what  you  have  said  about  your 
sister.  I  have  done  my  best  to  put  the  past  out  of  my 
mind,  and  I  have  succeeded.  When  I  met  her  in  the 
garden  just  now,  I  told  her  what  has  happened  in  my 
life.  I  am  to  be  married  very  soon.  I  did  not  mean  to 
tell  any  one  but  Miss  Fearing  until  it  war;  announced 
publicly,  but  I  cannot  help  telling  you,  after  what  you 
have  said.  I  am  going  to  marry  my  cousin  in  two 
months." 

Grace  did  not  change  her  position  nor  open  her  eyes 
any  wider.  She  had  expected  to  hear  the  news  before  long. 
"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  thought  that  would  happen.  I. 
am  very  glad  to  hear  it.  Mamie  is  thorough  and  will 
suit  you  much  better  than  Constance  ever  could.  I  wish 
that  Constance  were  half  as  natural  and  enthusiastic  and 
sensible.  She  has  so  much,  but  she  has  not  that." 

"No  enthusiasm?"  asked  George,  remembering  how 
he  had  lived  upon  her  appreciation  of  his  work. 

"No.  She  has  changed  very  much  since  you  used  to 
see  her  every  day.  You  had  a  good  influence  over  her, 
you  stirred  her  mind,  though  you  did  not  succeed  in  stir 
ring  her  heart  enough.  She  cares  for  nothing  now,  she 
never  talks,  never  reads,  never  does  anything  but  write 
long  letters  to  Dr.  Drinkwater  about  her  poor  people  — 
or  her  soul,  I  do  not  quite  know  which.  Xo,  you  need  not 
look  grave,  I  am  not  abusing  her.  Poor  child,  I  wish  I 
could  do  anything  to  make  her  forget  that  same  soul  of 


I  III     THIIKK    KATKS. 

hers,  and  those  eternal  hospitals  and  rharities!  Your 
•  •iHTgy  did  her  good.  It  roii^-d  her  and  made  her  tliink. 
She  lias  a  In-art  >oniewheiv.  I  >uppo>e.  and  sin-  lias  plenl\ 
of  head,  hut  she  smothers  them  hoth  with  IHT  soul." 

"She  will  get  over  that."  said  (ieorgr.     -Shi-  will  out- 
•A-  it.      It  is  only  a  phase." 

"She  will  never  g«'t  over  it.  until  sin-  is  married," 
Grace  answered  in  a  tone  of  conviction. 

"  It  is  very  strange.  You  talk  now  a.s  il  \  ou  wen-  IHT 
mother  instead  of  IK-MIL:  IHT  ynunvr«M-  lister. n 

"  Her  youiiLCer  sister;  "  (Jrace  exclaimed  with  a  ^\^}\. 
"  I  am  a  hundred  years  older  than  Constance.  Older  in 
everything,  in  knowing  the  meanings  of  the  two  threat 
words  —  happiness  and  su tiering." 

"  Indeed,  you  may  say  that."  <  ienrLre  answered  in  a  low 

Voice. 

"I  sometimes  think  that  they  are  tin-  only  two  wonU 
that  have  any  meaning  h-tt  tor  me.  or  that  should  mean 
anything  to  the  rest  of  the  world." 

The  settled  look  of  pain  deepened  upon  IHT  face  as  slie 
spoke.  n,,t  distorting  nor  changing  the  pure  outlines,  hut 
lending  them  something  solemn  and  nohh-  that  was  almost 
grand.  <!e<>rge  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  a\\f,  and  tin- 
great  <|ue>tii»ii  of  the  meaning  of  all  life  and  death  r066 
U-fore  him.  as  In-  renn-mliered  her  husband's  death  grip 
upon  hi>  arm.  and  the  moment  when  he  hiniM-lf  had 
luvathed  in  the  cool  water  and  given  up  the  >t  niggle. 
He  had  o])ened  hi>  e\e>  again  to  tln>  \\orld  to  see  all 
that  \\a>  to  r.--ult  of  ]>ain  and  .suffering  from  the  death 
of  tin-  oth.-r.  wlio-se  .sight  had  gone  out  for  ever.  They 

had     Uet-ll     together     in     the     depths.        The     olie     had     heeil 

dro\\-ne(l  and  had  taken  with  him  the  happiness  of  the 
woman  he  had  loved.  The  other,  he  himself,  had  heeii 
sav.-.l  and  another  woman's  lite  had  Keen  tilled  with  sun 
shine.  \Vhytheone.  rather  than  the  other'.'  He,  who 
had  always  faced  lite  as  he  had  found  it.  and  fought  with 
whatever  opposed  him.  asked  himself  whether  there  wen- 
an\  meaning  in  it  all.  Why  should  those  two  great 


THE   THREE   FATES.  333 

things,  happiness  and  suffering,  be  so  unevenly  dis 
tributed?  Was  poor  John  Bond  a  loss  to  humanity  in 
the  aggregate?  Not  a  serious  one.  Did  he,  George  Wood, 
care  whether  John  Bond  were  alive  or  dead,  beyond  the 
decent  regret  lie  felt,  or  ought  to  feel?  No,  assuredly 
not.  Would  Constance  have  cared,  if  he  had  not  chanced 
to  be  her  sister's  husband,  did  Totty  care,  did  Mamie 
care?  No.  They  were  all  shocked,  which  is  to  say  that 
their  nerves,  including  his  own,  had  been  painfully 
agitated.  And  yet  this  man,  John  Bond,  for  whom  no 
body  cared,  but  whom  every  one  respected,  had  left 
behind  him  in  one  heart  a  grief  that  was  almost  awe- 
inspiring,  a  sorrow  that  sought  no  expression,  and 
despised  words,  that  painted  its  own  image  on  the 
woman's  face  and  spread  its  own  solemn  atmosphere 
about  her.  A  keen,  cool,  sharp-witted  young  lawyer,  by 
the  simple  act  of  departing  this  world,  had  converted  a 
pretty  and  very  sensible  young  woman  into  a  tragic  muse, 
had  lent  her  grandeur  of  mien,  had  rendered  her  impos 
ing,  had  given  her  a  dignity  that  momentarily  placed  her 
higher  than  other  women  in  the  scale  of  womanhood. 
Which  was  the  real  self?  The  self  that  was  gone,  or  the 
one  that  remained?  Had  a  great  sorrow  given  the 
woman  a  fictitious  importance,  or  had  it  revealed  some 
thing  noble  in  her  which  no  one  had  known  before? 
Whichever  were  true,  Grace  was  no  longer  the  Grace 
Fearing  of  old,  and  George  felt  a  strange  admiration  for 
her  growing  up  within  him. 

"You  are  right,  I  think,"  he  said  after  a  long  pause. 
"  Happiness  and  suffering  are  the  only  words  that  have 
or  ought  to  have  any  meaning.  The  rest  —  it  is  all  a 
matter  of  opinion,  of  taste,  of  fashion,  of  anything  you 
please  excepting  the  heart." 

"  Constance  will  tell  you  that  right  and  wrong  are  the 
two  important  words,"  said  Grace.  "And  she  will  tell 
you  that  real  happiness  consists  in  being  able  to  distin 
guish  between  the  two,  and  that  the  only  suffering  lies 
in  confounding  the  wrong  with  the  right." 


334  mi:  THKI.I:  KATES. 

"Does  religion  mean  that  we  are  to  feel  nothing?" 
George  asked. 

"That  is  what  the  religion  of  people  who  have  never 
felt  anything  seems  to  mean.  Pay  no  attention  to  yonr 
sorrows  and  distrust  all  your  joys,  because  they  an-  of  no 
importance  compared  with  the  welfare  of  your  soul.  It 
matters  not  who  lives  or  who  dies,  who  is  married,  or 
who  is  betrayed,  provided  you  take  eare  of  your  soul,  of 
your  miserable,  worthless,  selfish  little  soul  and  bring 
it  safe  to  heaven !  " 

"That  must  be  an  odd  sort  of  religion."  said  George. 

"It  is  the  religion  of  those  who  cannot  feel.  It  is 
good  enough  for  them.  I  do  not  know  why  I  am  talking 
in  this  way.  except  that  it  is  a  relief  to  be  able  to  talk 
to  some  one  who  understands.  When  are  you  to  be 
married?" 

"I  hope  it  may  be  in  November." 

"By-the-bye,  what  will  Mr.  Craik  think  of  the  mar 
riage?  He  ought  to  do  something  for  Mamie,  I  sup 
pose.  " 

"Mr.  Craik  is  my  own  familiar  enemy,"  said  George. 
"I  never  take  into  consideration  what  lie  is  likely  to  do 
or  to  leave  undone.  He  will  do  what  seems  right  in  his 
own  eyes,  and  that  will  very  probably  seem  wrong  in  the 
eyes  of  others." 

••  Mrs.  Trimm  doubtless  knows  best  what  can  be  done 
with  him.  What  did  Constance  say.  when  you  told  her 
of  your  engagement1.'  " 

"Very  little.  What  she  will  say  to  you,  I  have  no 
doubt.  That  she  hopes  I  shall  l>e  happy  and  is  very  glad 
to  hear  of  the  marriage." 

"I  wonder  whether  she  cares."  said  Grace  thought 
fully.  George  thought  it  would  be  more  discreet  to  say 
nothing  than  to  give  his  own  opinion  in  the  matter. 

•  Xo  one  can  tell,"  GtaKM  continued.  "  Least  of  all, 
herself.  I  have  once  or  twice  thought  that  she  regretted 
you  and  wished  you  would  propose  again.  And  then,  at, 
other  times.  I  have  felt  sure  that  she  \vasonlybored  — 


THE   THKEE   FATES. 


335 


bored  to  death  with  me,  with  her  surroundings,  with 
Dr.  Drinkwater,  the  poor  and  her  soul.  Poor  child,  I 
hope  she  will  marry  soon!  " 

"I  hope  so,"  said  George  as  he  rose  to  leave.  "Will 
you  be  kind  enough  not  to  say  anything  about  the 
engagement  until  it  is  announced?  That  will  be  in  a 
fortnight  or  so." 

*'  Certainly.  Come  and  see  me  when  it  is  out,  unless 
you  will  come  sooner.  It  is  so  good  of  you.  Good-bye." 

He  left  the  house  and  walked  down  the  garden  in  the 
direction  of  the  trees,  thinking  very  much  more  of  Grace 
and  of  her  conversation  than  of  Constance.  Apart  from 
her  appearance,  which  had  a  novel  interest  for  him,  and 
which  excited  his  sympathy,  he  hardly  knew  whether  he 
had  been  attracted  or  repelled  by  her  uncommon  frank 
ness  of  speech.  There  was  something  in  it  which  he 
did  not  recognise  as  having  belonged  to  her  before  in  the 
same  degree,  something  more  like  masculine  bluntness 
than  feminine  honesty.  It  seemed  as  though  she  had 
caught  and  kept  something  of  her  dead  husband's  man 
ner.  He  wondered  whether  she  spoke  as  she  did  in 
order  to  remind  herself  of  him  by  using  words  that  had 
been  familiar  in  his  mouth.  He  was  engaged  in  these 
reflections  when  he  was  surprised  to  meet  Constance 
face  to  face  as  he  turned  a  corner  in  the  path. 

"I  thought  you  were  indoors,"  he  said,  glancing  at  her 
face  as  though  expecting  to  see  some  signs  of  recent 
distress  there. 

But  if  Constance  had  shed  tears  she  had  successfully 
effaced  all  traces  of  them,  and  her  features  were  calm 
and  composed.  The  truth  of  the  matter  was  that  she 
feared  lest  she  had  betrayed  too  much  feeling  in  the 
interview  in  the  garden,  and  now,  to  do  away  with  any 
mistaken  impression  in  George's  mind,  she  had  resolved 
to  show  herself  to  him  again. 

"  Are  you  in  your  boat?  "  she  asked.  "  I  thought  that 
as  it  was  rather  chilly,  and  if  you  did  not  mind,  I  would 
ask  you  to  row  me  out  for  ten  minutes  in  the  sun.  Do 
you  mind  very  much?" 


336  I  HI.    THKKL    KATES. 

"1  shall  be  delighted."  said  (ieorge,  wondering  what 
new  development  of  circumstance^  hail  announced  itself 
in  her  sudden  doire  lor  boating. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  was  seated  in  the  stern  and 
he  was  rowing  her  leisurely  upstream.  To  his  surprise, 
she  talked  easily,  touching  upon  all  sorts  of  subjects  and 
asking  him  questions  about  his  hook  in  her  old,  familiar 
way,  but  never  referring  in  any  way  to  tin-  past,  nur  to 
his  engagement,  until  at  her  own  request  he  had  brought 
her  back  to  the  landing.  She  insisted  upon  his  letting 
her  walk  to  the  house  alone. 

"Good-bye."  she  said,  "and  so  many  thanks.  I  am 
quite  warm  now  —  ami  I  am  very,  very  glad  about  the 
_reiuent  and  grateful  to  yon  for  tilling  me.  I  hope 
you  will  ask  me  to  the  wedding !  " 

••  ( )f  course,"  George  answered  imperturbably  and  then, 
as  he  pulled  out  into  the  stream  he  watched  her  slight 
figure  as  she  followed  the  winding  path  that  led  up  from 
the  landing  to  the  level  of  the  grounds  above.  Wh.-n 
she  had  reached  the  top,  she  waved  her  hand  to  him  and 
smiled. 

"I  would  not  have  him  think  that  1  cared  —  not  for 
the  whole  world! ''  she  was  saying  to  herself  as  she  made 
the  friendly  signal  and  turned  away. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

Sherrington  Trimm  arrived  on  the  following  after 
noon,  rosin-  and  fresher  than  BY8Ij  and  GOnsidontblj? 
reduced  in  weight.  After  the  tir>t  general  and  affection 
ate  greeting  he  proceeded  to  interview  eaeh  member  "t 
the  family  in  private,  as  though  he  were  gutting  up 
evidence  tor  a  ease.  It  was  eharaeteriM  ie  of  him  that 
he  spoke  to  Mamie  tir.M.  The  most  important  point  in 
his  estimation  was  to  ascertain  whether  the  girl  were 


THE   THREE   FATES.  337 

really  in  love,  or  whether  she  had  only  contracted  a 
passing  attachment  for  George  Wood.  Knowing  all  that 
he  did,  and  all  that  he  supposed  was  unknown  to  his 
wife,  he  could  not  but  regard  the  match  with  compla 
cency,  so  far  as  worldly  advantages  were  concerned. 
But  if  he  had  been  once  assured  that  his  daughter's 
happiness  was  really  at  stake,  he  would  have  given  her 
as  readily  to  George,  the  comparatively  impecunious 
author,  as  to  Mr.  Winton  Wood,  the  future  millionaire. 

"Now,  Mamie,"  he  said,  linking  his  arm  in  hers  and 
leading  her  into  the  garden,  "now,  Mamie,  tell  us  all 
about  it." 

Mamie  blushed  faintly  and  gave  her  father  a  shy 
glance,  and  then  looked  down. 

"There  is  not  much  to  tell,"  she  answered.  "I  love 
him,  and  I  am  very  happy.  Is  not  that  enough?  " 

"You  are  quite  sure  of  yourself,  eh?"  Mr.  Trimm 
looked  sharply  at  her  face.  "And  how  long  has  this 
been  going  on?  " 

"All  my  life  —  though  —  well,  how  can  I  explain, 
papa?  You  ought  to  understand.  One  finds  out  such 
things  all  at  once,  and  then  one  knows  that  they  have 
always  been  there." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Sherry.  "  You  did  not  know  that 
'  it, '  as  you  call  it,  was  there  when  I  went  away. " 

"Oh  yes,  I  did." 

"Well,  did  you  know  it  a  year  ago?" 

"Xo,  perhaps  not.  Oh,  papa,  this  is  like  twenty 
questions."  Mamie  laughed  happily. 

"Is  it?  Never  played  the  game  —  cannot  say.  And 
you  have  no  doubts  about  him,  have  you?" 

"  How  can  anybody  doubt  him ! "  Mamie  exclaimed 
indignantly. 

"It  is  my  business  to  doubt,"  said  Sherry  Trimm  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  'I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt ' 
—  never  knew  what  it  meant  till  to-day." 

"Then  go  away,  papa!  "  laughed  the  young  girl. 

"  And  let  George  have  a  chance.     I  suppose  that  is 


THE   THHKK    FATKS. 

what  you  mean.  <  >n  tin-  whole,  perhaps  I  could  do 
nothing  better.  But  I  will  just  see  whether  he  has  any 
doubts,  and  finish  my  cigar  with  him." 

Thereupon  Sherrington  Triinin  turned  sharply  on  Ins 
heel  and  went  in  search  of  George.  He  found  him  stand 
ing  on  the  verandah  pensively  examining  a  trail  -A  ant> 
that  were  busily  establishing  communication  between 
the  garden  walk  and  a  tiny  fragment  of  sponge  cake 
which  had  fallen  upon  the  step  during  afternoon  tea. 

"George,"  said  Sherry  in  business-like  tones,  through 
which,  however,  the  man's  kindly  good  nature  was 
clearly  appreciable,  "do  you  mind  telling  me  in  a  fe\\ 
words  why  you  wa-nt  to  marry  my  daughter?" 

George  turned  his  head,  and  there  was  a  pleasant  smile 
upon  his  face.  Then  he  pointed  to  the  trail  of  ant>. 

Mr.  Sherrington  Trimm,"  he  said,  "do  you  mind 
explaining  to  me  very  briefly  why  those  ants  are  so  par 
ticularly  anxious  to  get  at  that  piece  of  cake?" 

"Like  it,  I  suppose,"  Sherry  answered  laconically. 

''That  is  exactly  my  case.  1  have  gone  to  the  length 
of  falling  very  much  in  love  with  Mamie,  and  I  wish  to 
marry  her.  I  understand  that  her  views  coincide  \\ith 
mine  and  that  you  make  no  objections.  I  think  that  the 
explanation  is  complete." 

••  Very  well  stated.  Now,  look  here.  The  only  thing 
I  care  for  on  earth  is  that  child's  happiness.  She  is  not 
like  all  girls.  You  may  have  found  that  out,  by  this 
tune.  If  you  behave  yourself  as  I  think  you  will,  ihfl 
will  be  the  best  wife  to  you  that  man  ever  had.  It  you 
do  not  —  well,  there  is  no  knowing  what  she  will  do,  but 
whatever  it  is.  it  will  surprise  you.  I  do  not  know 
whether  hearts  break  nowadays  as  easily  as  they  used 
to.  and  1  am  not  prepared  to  state  positively  that  Mamie's 
heart  would  break  under  the  circumstance^  \\\\\  if  you 
do  not  treat  her  properly,  she  will  make  it  pretty  deuced 
hot  for  you,  and  by  the  Kternal,  so  will  I,  my  boy.  1 
like  to  put  the  tiling  in  its  proper  light." 

"You  do."  laughed  George,  "with  uncommon  clear 
ness.  I  am  prepared  to  run  all  risks  of  that  sort." 


THE  THKEE  FATES.  839 

"Hope  so,"  returned  Sherry  Trimm,  smoking  thought 
fully.  "Now  then,  George,"  he  resumed  in  a  more  con 
fidential  tone,  after  a  short  pause,  "there  is  a  little 
matter  of  business  between  you  and  me,  We  are  old 
friends,  and  I  might  be  your  father  in  point  of  age,  and 
now  about  to  become  your  father-in-law  in  point  of  fact. 
How  about  the  bread  and  butter?  I  have  no  intention 
of  giving  Mamie  a  fortune.  No,  no,  I  know  you  are 
aware  of  that,  but  there  are  material  considerations,  you 
know.  Now,  just  give  me  an  idea  of  how  you  propose 
to  live." 

"  If  I  do  not  lose  my  health,  we  can  live  very  comfort 
ably,"  George  answered.  "I  think  I  can  undertake  to 
say  that  we  should  need  no  help.  It  would  not  be  like 
this  —  like  your  way  of  living,  of  course.  But  we  can 
have  all  we  need  and  a  certain  amount  of  small  luxury." 

"Hum!"  ejaculated  Sherry  Trimm  in  a  doubting- 
tone.  "Not  much  luxury,  I  am  afraid." 

"A  certain  amount,"  George  answered  quietly.  "I 
have  earned  over  ten  thousand  dollars  during  the  last 
year  and  I  have  kept  most  of  it." 

"Really!"  exclaimed  the  other.  "I  did  not  know 
that  literature  was  such  a  good  thing.  But  you  may  not 
always  earn  as  much,  next  year,  or  the  year  after." 

"That  is  unlikely,  unless  I  break  down.  I  do  not 
know  why  that  should  happen  to  me. " 

"You  do  not  look  like  it,"  said  Sherry,  eyeing  George's 
spare  and  vigorous  frame,  and  his  clear,  brown  skin. 

"I  do  not  feel  like  it,"  said  George. 

"Well,  look  here.  I  will  tell  you  what  I  will  do.  I 
have  my  own  reasons  for  not  giving  you  a  house  just 
now.  But  I  will  give  Mamie  just  half  as  much  as  you 
make,  right  along.  I  suppose  that  is  fair.  I  need  not 
tell  you  that  she  will  have  everything  some  day." 

"You  may  give  Mamie  anything  you  like,"  George 
answered  indifferently.  "  I  shall  never  ask  questions.  If 
I  fall  ill  and  cannot  work  for  a  long  time  together,  you 
will  have  to  support  her,  and  my  father  will  support 
me." 


:'»4U  i  in.    i  HKI.I.   i  \  1 1.- 

"  I  dares. iv  we  could  span-  you  a  crust,  my  boy,"  said 
Sherrington  Triiuiu.  laying  his  small  hand  upon  George's 
broad,  bony  shoulder  and  pushing  him  along.  "  I  do  not 
want  to  keep  you  any  longer,  if  you  have  anything 
to  do." 

George  sauntered  a\vay  in  the  direction  of  the  garden, 
and  Sherry  Trimm  unit  indoors  to  find  his  wife.  Totty 
met  him  in  the  drawing-room,  having  ju>t  returned  from 
a  secret  interview  with  her  cook,  in  the  interests  of 
Sherry's  first  dinner  at  home. 

"Totty,  look  here,"  he  said,  selecting  a  en  intertable 
chair  and  sitting  down.  He  leaned  back,  crossed  his 
legs,  rais«-d  his  hands  and  set  them  together,  thumb  to 
thumb  and  linger  to  linger,  but  said  nothing  more. 

"I  am  looking,"  said  Totty  with  a  sweet  smile.  She 
seated  herself  beside  him.  "  I  have  already  L  ><  ,ked.  You 
are  wonderfully  better  —  I  am  so  glad." 

"Yes.  Those  waters  have  screwed  me  up  a  peg.  But 
that  is  not  what  I  mean.  When  I  say,  look  here,  I  mean 
to  suggest  that  you  should  concentrate  your  gigantic  in 
tellect  upon  the  consideration  of  the  matter  in  hand. 
You  have  made  this  match,  and  you  are  responsible  for 
it.  Will  you  tell  me  why  yon  have  made  it?" 

"How  do  you  mean  that  1  have  made  it?"  asked  Totty 
evasively. 

••Innocence,  thy  name  is  Charlotte!"  exclaimed 
Sherry,  looking  at  the  ceiling.  "You  brought  (ieorge 
here,  you  knew  that  Mamie  liked  him  and  that  he  would 
like  her,  not  on  the  first  day.  nor  on  the  second,  but 
inevitably  on  the  third  or  fourth.  You  knew  that  on 
the  fifth  day  they  would  love  each  other,  that  they  would 
tell  each  other  so  on  tli e  sixth,  and  that  the  .seventh  day, 
being  one  of  rest,  would  In-  devoted  to  obtaining  our 
consent.  You  knew  also  that  (ieorge  was,  and  is,  a 
penniless  author — I  admit  that  he  earn >  a  good  deal  — 
and  yet  you  ha\  »•  done  all  in  \  mir  power  to  make  Mamie 
mans  him.  The  tad  that  I  like  him  has  nothing  to  do 
with'it." 


THE   THREE   FATES.  841 

"Nothing  to  do  with  it!  Oh,  Sherry,  how  can  you 
say  such  things !  " 

u  Nothing  whatever.  I  would  have  liked  lots  of  other 
young  fellows  just  as  well.  What  especial  reason  had 
you  for  selecting  this  particular  young  fellow?  That  is 
what  I  want  to  get  at." 

"Oh,  is  that  all?  Mamie  loved  him,  my  dear.  I 
knew  it  long  ago,  and  as  I  knew  that  you  would  not  dis 
approve,  I  brought  him  here.  It  is  not  a  question  of 
money.  We  have  more  than  we  can  ever  need.  It  is 
not  as  if  we  had  two  or  three  sons  to  start  in  the  world, 
Sherry." 

She  lent  an  intonation  of  sadness  to  the  last  words, 
which,  as  she  was  aware,  always  produced  the  same 
effect  upon  her  husband.  He  had  bitterly  regretted 
having  no  son  to  bear  his  honourable  name. 

"That  is  just  it,"  he  answered  sadly.  "Mamie  is 
everything,  and  everything  is  for  her.  That  is  the 
reason  why  we  should  be  careful.  She  is  not  like  a 
great  many  girls.  She  has  a  heart  and  she  will  break 
it,  if  she  is  not  happy." 

"  That  is  the  very  reason.  You  do  not  seem  to  realise 
that  she  is  madly  in  love." 

"  No  doubt,  but  was  she  madly  in  love,  as  you  call  it, 
when  you  brought  them  here?" 

"  Long  before  that " 

"  Then  why  did  you  never  tell  me  —  we  might  have 
had  him  to  the  house  all  the  time " 

"  Because  I  supposed,  as  every  one  else  did,  that  he 
meant  to  marry  Constance  Fearing.  I  did  not  want  to 
spoil  his  life,  and  I  thought  that  Mamie  would  get  over 
it.  But  the  thing  came  to  nothing.  In  fact,  I  begin  to 
believe  that  there  never  was  anything  in  it,  and  that  the 
story  was  all  idle  gossip  from  beginning  to  end.  He  is 
on  as  good  terms  as  ever  with  her  and  goes  over  there 
from  time  to  time  to  console  poor  Grace." 

"  Oh !  "  ejaculated  Sherry  in  a  thoughtful  tone. 

"You  need  not  say  'oh,'  like  that.     There  is  nothing 


H4-  THK 

to  be  afraid  of.  It  i>  perfectly  natural  that  the  pom 
woman  should  like  to  see  him,  when  he  nearly  died  in 
trying  t<»  save  her  husband.  They  Bay  she  is  ill  a  dread 
fill  state,  half  mad.  and  ill.  and  so  changed!  " 

"Poor  John!"  exclaimed  Sherry  sadly.  "I  shall 
never  see  his  like  again."  He  sighed,  for  he  had  been 
very  fond  of  the  man,  besides  looking  upon  him  M  a 
most  promising  partner  in  his  law  business. 

"It  was  dreadful!'"  Mrs.  Trimm  shuddered  as  she 
thought  of  the  accident.  "I  cannot  bear  to  talk  about 
it,"  she  added. 

A  short  pause  followed,  during  which  Totty  wore  a 
very  sad  expression,  and  Sherry  examined  attentively  a 
ring  he  \vore  upon  his  ringer,  in  which  a  dark  sapphire 
\\as  set  between  two  very  white  diamonds. 

"  There  is  one  thing,"  he  said  suddenly.  "  The  sooner 
we  pull  up  stakes  the  better.  I  do  not  propose  to  spend 
best  part  of  my  life  in  the  cars.  The  weather  is  cool 
and  we  will  go  back  to  town.  So  pack  up  your  trap-. 
Totty,  and  let  us  be  off.  Have  you  written  to  Tom?  " 

" No,"  said  Totty.  "  I  would  not  announce  the  engage 
ment  till  we  were  settled  in  town." 

Sherrington  Trimm  departed  on  the  following  morning, 
alleging  with  truth  that  the  business  could  not  be  allowed 
to  go  to  pieces.  Totty  and  the  two  young  jx/ople  were 
to  return  two  or  three  days  later,  and  active  preparation* 
were  at  once  made  tor  moving.  Totty,  indeed,  could 
not  bear  the  idea  of  allowing  her  husband  to  remain 
alon,-  in  New  York.  It  was  possible  that  at  any  moment 
he  might  discover  that  the  will  was  missing  from  her 
brother's  box.  She  might  indeed  have  been  spared 
much  anxiety  in  this  matter  had  she  known  that  although 
Sherry  had  sealed  and  marked  the  document  himsi-lt. 
it  was  not  he  \\  In.  had  placed  it  in  the  receptacle  where 
it  had  been  found  by  his  wife.  Sherry  had  handed  it 
across  the  table  to  John  I'.ond.  telling  him  to  put  it  in 
Craik's  deed-box,  and  had  >een  .John  leave  the  room 
with  it.  but  had  m-v.-r  1*60  it  linoe.  It  was  not,  indeed, 


THE   THREE   FATES.  343 

until  much  later  that  he  had  communicated  to  his  part 
ner  the  contents  of  the  paper.  If  it  could  not  now  be 
found,  Sherry  would  suppose  that  John  had  accidentally 
put  it  into  the  wrong  box  and  a  general  search  would  be 
made.  Then  it  would  be  thought  that  John  had  mis 
laid  it.  In  any  case  poor  John  was  dead  and  could  not 
defend  himself.  Sherry  would  go  directly  to  Tom  Craik 
and  get  him  to  sign  a  duplicate,  but  he  would  never, 
under  any  conceivable  combination  of  circumstances, 
connect  his  wife  with  the  disappearance  of  the  will,  nor 
mention  the  fact  in  her  presence.  Totty,  however,  was 
ignorant  of  these  facts,  and  lived  in  the  constant  fear  of 
being  obliged  to  explain  matters  to  her  husband.  Though 
she  had  thought  much  of  the  matter  she  had  not  hit 
upon  any  expedient  for  restoring  the  document  to  its 
place.  She  kept  it  in  a  small  Indian  cabinet  which  her 
brother  had  once  given  her,  in  which  there  was  a  hidden 
drawer  of  which  no  one  knew  the  secret  but  herself. 
This  cabinet  she  had  brought  with  her  and  had  kept  all 
through  the  summer  in  a  prominent  place  in  the  draw 
ing-room,  justly  deeming  that  things  are  generally  most 
safely  hidden  when  placed  in  the  most  exposed  position, 
where  no  one  would  ever  think  of  looking  for  them.  On 
returning  to  New  York  the  cabinet  was  again  packed  in 
one  of  Totty 's  own  boxes,  but  the  will  was  temporarily 
concealed  about  her  person,  to  be  restored  to  its  hiding- 
place  as  soon  as  she  reached  the  town  house. 

Before  leaving  the  neighbourhood  George  felt  that  it 
was  his  duty  to  apprise  Constance  and  her  sister  of  his 
departure,  but  he  avoided  the  necessity  of  making  a  visit 
by  writing  a  letter  to  Grace.  It  seemed  to  him  more 
fitting  that  he  should  address  his  note  to  her  rather  than 
to  her  sister,  considering  all  that  had  happened.  He 
urged  that  both  should  return  to  New  York  before  the 
winter  began,  and  he  inserted  a  civil  message  for  Con 
stance  before  he  concluded. 

Mamie  took  an  affectionate  leave  of  the  place  in  which 
she  had  been  so  happy.  During  the  last  hours  of  the 


•144  THK    THREE   FATES. 

day  preeeding  their  return  t«>  town,  George  nover  left 
her  side,  while  she  wandered  through  tin-  \v;ilks  of  the 
garden  and  beneath  tin-  beautiful  tieeOj  back  to  the 
house,  in  ami  out  of  tin-  n>«nis.  thru  lingered  again  upon 
the  verandah  and  ga/ed  at  tin-  distant  river.  lie  watched 
tlie  nioveineiits  of  her  faultless  figure  as  she  sat  down 
for  the  last  time  in  the  p laces  where  they  had  so  often 
sat  together,  then  rose  quickly,  and.  linking  her  arm  in 
his,  led  him  away  to  some  other  well-remembered  spot. 

"I  have  been  so  happy  here!"  she  said  for  the  hun 
dredth  time. 

••  You  shall  l»e  as  happy  in  other  places,  if  I  can  make 
you  so,''  George  answered. 

"Shall  we?  Shall  [f»  she  asked,  looking  up  into  his 
I  ne.  •*  Who  can  tell!  One  is  never  so  sure  of  the  future 
as  one  is  of  the  past  —  and  the  present.  Shall  we  take 
it  all  with  us  to  our  little  house  in  New  York1.'  How 
funny  it  will  seem  to  be  living  all  alone  with  you  in  a 
little  house!  I  shall  not  give  you  champagne  every  day, 
George.  You  need  not  expert  it!  It  will  be  a  very 
little  house,  and  I  shall  do  all  the  work.'* 

"If  you  will  allow  me  to  black  the  boots,  I  shall  be 
most  happy."  said  George.  "  I  kumv  how." 

"Imagine:  You,  blacking  boots!"  exclaimed  Mamie 
indignantly. 

"AYhy  not?  I »ut  seriously,  we  .-an  do  a  great  deal 
more  than  you  fancy  —  provided,  as  you  say,  that  we  do 
not  go  in  tor  champagne  every  day,  and  keep  horses  and 
all  that." 

"  I  think  \ve  shall  have  more  champagne  and  horses 
than  other  tilings."  Mamie  answered  with  a  laugh. 
"  Mamma  is  going  to  keep  a  carriage  tor  me.  as  well  as 
my  dear  old  riding  horse,  and  papa  told  me  not  to  let 
you  buy  any  wine,  localise  there  was  some  of  that  par 
ticular  kind  you  like  on  the  way  out.  Between  you 
and  me.  I  do  not  think  they  really  expect  US  to  be  in 
the  least  economical,  though  mamma  is  always  talking 
about  it ." 


THE   THREE   FATES.  345 

She  was  very  happy  and  it  was  impossible  for  her  to 
cloud  the  future  by  the  idea  of  being  deprived  of  any  of 
the  luxury  to  which  she  had  always  been  accustomed. 
She  knew  in  her  heart  that  she  was  both  willing  and 
able  to  undergo  any  privation  for  George's  sake,  but  it 
would  have  been  unlike  her  to  talk  of  what  she  would 
or  could  do  when  there  was  no  immediate  prospect  of 
doing  it.  Her  chief  thought  was  to  make  her  husband's 
house  comfortable,  and  if  she  knew  something  of  the  art 
from  having  watched  her  mother,  she  knew  also  that 
comfort,  as  she  understood  it,  required  a  very  free  use 
of  money.  George  knew  it,  too,  since  he  had  been 
brought  up  in  luxury  and  had  been  deprived  of  it  at  the 
age  when  such  things  are  most  keenly  felt.  The  terri 
ble,  noiseless,  hourly  expenditure  that  he  had  seen  in 
Totty's  house  made  the  exiguity  of  his  own  resources 
particularly  apparent  to  his  judgment. 

"  Good-b}~e,  dear  old  place !  "  cried  the  young  girl,  as 
they  stood  on  the  verandah  at  dusk,  before  going  in  to 
dress  for  dinner.  She  threw  kisses  with  her  fingers  at 
the  garden  and  at  the  trees. 

George  stood  by  her  side  in  silence,  gazing  out  at  the 
dim  outline  of  the  distant  hills  beyond  the  river. 

"Are  you  not  sorry  to  leave  it  all?"  Mamie  asked. 

"Very  sorry,"  he  answered,  as  though  not  knowing 
what  he  said.  Then  he  stooped,  and  kissed  her  small 
white  face,  and  they  both  went  in. 

That  night  George  sat  up  late  in  his  room,  looking 
over  the  manuscript  that  had  grown  under  his  hand  dur 
ing  the  summer  months.  It  was  all  but  finished  and  he 
intended  to  write  the  last  chapter  in  Xew  York,  but  it 
interested  him  to  look  through  it  before  leaving  the  sur 
roundings  in  which  it  had  been  written.  What  most 
struck  him  in  the  work  was  the  care  with  which  it  was 
done.  It  was  not  a  very  imaginative  book,  but  it  was 
remarkable  for  its  truth  and  clearness  of  style.  He 
wondered  at  the  coldness  of  certain  scenes,  which  in  his 
first  conception  of  the  story  had  promised  to  be  the  most 


346  THE   THREE   FATES. 

dramatic.  He  wondered  still  more  at  the  success  with 
which  he  had  handled  points  \vhicli  in  themselve> 
seemed  to  be  far  from  attractive  to  the  novelist.  His 
conversations  were  better  than  they  had  formerly  been, 
but  the  love  scenes  were  unsatisfactory,  and  he  deter 
mined  that  he  would  re-write  some  of  them.  The  whole 
book  looked  too  truthful  and  too  little  enthu>iastic  to 
him,  now,  though  he  fancied  that  he  had  passed  through 
moments  of  enthusiasm  while  he  was  writing  it.  On  tin- 
whole,  it  was  a  disappointment,  to  himself,  and  lie  be 
lieved  that  others  would  be  disappointed  likewise.  He 
asked  himself  what  Johnson  would  think  of  it,  and  made 
up  his  mind  to  al>ide  by  his  opinion.  Vaguely  too,  as 
one  sometimes  longs  to  see  again  a.  book  once  read,  lie 
wished  that  he  might  have  Constance's  criticism  and 
advice,  though  he  was  conscious  at  the  same  time  that  it 
was  not  the  sort  of  story  she  would  have  liked. 

Two  days  later,  he  found  himself  onee  more  in  his 
little  room  in  his  father's  house.  The  old  gentleman 
received  the  news  of  the  engag« -in. -nt  in  silence.  He 
had  guessed  that  matters  would  terminate  as  they  had, 
and  the  prospect  had  given  him  little  satisfaction.  He 
thought  that  the  alliance  would  probably  cut  him  off 
from  his  son's  society,  and  he  was  inwardly  hurt  that 
(Jcorgr  should  >eem  indifferent  to  the  fact.  P.ut  In*  said 
nothing.  From  the  worldly  point  of  view  the  nun-nag'1 
was  a  brilliant  one,  and  it  meant  that  (ieorge  must  ulti 
mately  be  a  rich  man.  His  future  at  least  was  provided 
for. 

George  found  .Johnson  hard  at  work,  as  u>ual,  and  if 
possible  paler  and  more  in  earnest  than  before.  He  had 
taken  a  week's  holiday  (hiring  the  hottest  part  of  the 
summer,  but  with  that  except  ion  had  never  relaxed  in 
his  astounding  industry  since  they  had  last  met. 

"  How  particularly  sleek  you  look."  he  said,  scrutinis 
ing  George's  face  as  the  latter  sat  down. 

"  I  feel  Sleek,"  George  answered  with  a  slight  laugh. 
*' 1  Ixilieve  that  is  what  is  the  matter  with  the  hook  I 


THE   THREE    FATES.  347 

have  been  writing  since  I  saw  you.  I  am  not  satisfied 
with  it,  and  I  want  your  opinion.  I  sat  up  all  last  night 
to  write  the  last  chapter  in  my  old  den,  I  think  it  is 
better  than  the  rest." 

"  That  is  a  pity.  It  will  look  like  a  new  silk  hat  on 
a  beggar  —  or  like  a  wig  on  a  soup-tureen,  as  the  French 
men  say.  But  I  daresay  you  are  quite  wrong  about  the 
rest  of  it.  You  generally  are.  For  a  man  who  can 
write  a  good  story  in  good  English  when  he  tries,  you 
have  as  little  confidence  as  I  ever  saw  in  any  one.  The 
public  does  not  write  books  and  does  not  know  how  they 
are  written.  It  will  never  find  out  that  you  wrote  the 
beginning  in  clover  and  the  end  in  nettles." 

"Oh  —  the  public!7'  exclaimed  George.  "One  never 
knows  what  it  will  do." 

"  One  may  guess,  sometimes.  The  public  consists  of 
a  vast  collection  of  individuals  collected  in  a  crowd 
around  the  feet  of  four  great  beasts.  There  is  the  igno 
rant  beast  and  the  learned  beast,  the  virtuous  beast  and 
the  vicious  beast.  They  are  all  four  beasts  in  their  way, 
because  they  all  represent  an  immense  accumulation  of 
prejudice,  in  four  different  directions  and  having  four 
different  followings,  all  pulling  different  ways.  You 
cannot  possibly  please  them  all  and  it  is  quite  useless 
to  try." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  that  the  four  beasts  are  the  four 
kinds  of  critics.  Is  that  it?  " 

"No,"  Johnson  answered.  "That  is  not  it  at  all.  If 
we  critics  had  more  real  influence  with  the  public,  the 
public  would  be  all  the  better  for  it.  As  it  is,  the  real 
critic  is  dying  out,  because  the  public  will  not  pay 
enough  to  keep  him  alive.  It  is  sad,  but  I  suppose  it 
is  natural.  This  is  the  age  of  free  thought,  and  the 
phrase,  if  you  interpret  it  as  most  people  do,  means  that 
all  men  are  to  consider  themselves  critics,  whether  they 
know  anything  or  not.  Have  you  brought  your  manu 
script  with  you?" 

"  Xo.    I  wanted  to  ask  first  whether  you  would  read  it." 


34*  THE   THREE    FATES. 

"You  need  not  be  so  humble,  n<>\\-  that  you  are  a 
<•fl.-l.nty."  >;\](\  Johnson  with  a  laugh.  "You  do  not 
look  the  part,  either.  \Yhat  has  happened  to  yon'.'  " 

"I  am  going  to  be  married."  (leorge  answered.  ''I 
am  to  marry  my  COUMII.  Mi»  Trimm." 

"  Not  Sherrington  Trimm's  daughter!" 

"The  same,  if  it  please  you." 

"I  congratulate  you  on  leaving  tin*  literary  career." 
said  Johnson  with  a  sardonic  smile.  u  I  suppose  you 
will  never  do  another  stroke  of  work.  AYell —  it  is  a 
pity." 

"I  have  to  work  lor  my  living  as  1  have  done  for 
vears."  <  Answered.  -  I )o  you  imagine  that  I 

would  live  ui>on  other  people's  money'.'" 

"Do  you  really  mean  to  go  on  working'.' " 

"Of  course  I  do,  as  long  as  I  can  hold  a  pen.  I 
should  if  I  were  rich  in  my  own  right,  for  love  of  the 
thing." 

"Love  of  the  thing  is  not  enough.  Are  you  ambi 
tious?  " 

"I  do  not  know.  I  never  thought  about  it.  To  me, 
the  question  is  whether  a  thing  is  well  done  or  not,  for 
its  own  sake.  The  success  of  it  means  money,  which  I 
need,  but  apart  from  that  I  do  not  think  I  care  very 
much  about  it.  I  may  be  mistaken.  I  value  your  opin 
ion,  for  instance,  and  if  I  knew  other  men  like  you,  I 
should  value  theirs." 

"You  will  never  succeed  to  any  extent  without  ambi 
tion,''  Johnson  answered  with  great  energy.  "It  i> 
everything  in  literature.  You  mu>t  fed  that  yon  will 
go  mad  if  yon  are  not  first,  if  \oii  are  not  acknowledged 
t"  be  better  tliaii  any  one  el>e  during  \  our  lifetime.  You 
must  make  people  understand  that  you  arc  a  dangerous 
rival,  and  \<>u  mn>t  have  the  daily  satisfaction  of  know 
ing  that  they  feel  it.  Literature  is  like  the  storming  of 
,t  redoubt.  \  on  must  climb  upon  the  bodies  of  the  slain 
and  be  the  first  to  plant  your  Hag  on  the  top.  You  must 
lie  .make  all  night,  and  torment  yourself  all  day  to  find 


THE   THREE   FATES.  349 

some  means  of  doing  a  thing  better  than  other  people. 
To  be  first,  always,  all  your  life,  without  fear  of  com 
petition,  to  be  Caesar  or  to  be  nothing!  I  wish  I  could 
make  you  feel  what  I  feel !  " 

"I  think  I  would  rather  not,"  said  George.  "It  must 
be  very  disturbing  to  the  judgment  to  be  always  compar 
ing  oneself  with  others  instead  of  trying  to  do  the  best 
one  can  in  an  independent  way." 

"  You  will  never  succeed  without  ambition, "  Johnson 
repeated  confidently. 

"  Then  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never  succeed  at  all,  for  I 
have  not  a  spark  of  that  sort  of  ambition.  I  do  not  care 
a  straw  for  being  thought  better  than  any  one  else,  nor 
for  being  a  celebrity.  I  want  to  satisfy  myself,  my  owTn 
idea  of  what  is  a  good  book,  and  I  am  afraid  I  never 
shall.  I  suppose  that  is  a  sort  of  ambition  too." 

"It  is  not  the  right  sort." 

George  knew  his  friend  very  well  and  was  familiar 
with  most  of  his  ideas.  He  respected  his  character,  and 
he  valued  his  opinion  more  than  that  of  any  man  in  his 
acquaintance,  but  he  could  never  accept  his  theories  as 
infallible.  He  felt  that  if  he  ever  succeeded  in  writing 
a  book  that  pleased  him  he  would  recognise  its  merits 
sooner  than  any  one,  and  but  for  the  necessity  of  earn 
ing  a  livelihood  he  would  have  systematically  destroyed 
all  his  writings  until  he  had  attained  a  satisfactory 
result.  That  a  certain  amount  of  reputation  might  be 
gained  by  publishing  what  he  regarded  as  incomplete  or 
inartistic  work  was  to  him  a  matter  of  indifference, 
except  for  the  material  advantages  which  resulted  from 
the  transaction.  Such,  at  least,  was  his  belief  about 
himself.  That  he  was  able  to  appreciate  flattery  when 
it  was  of  a  good  and  subtle  quality,  only  showed  him 
that  he  was  human,  but  did  not  improve  his  own  estima 
tion  of  his  productions. 

A  week  later,  Johnson  returned  the  manuscript  with  a 
note  in  which  he  gave  his  opinion  of  it. 

"It  will  sell,"  he  wrote.     "You  are  quite  mistaken 


3.V)  THK   THREE    FATES. 

about  yourself,  as  usual.  You  told  me  the  other  day 
that  you  had  no  ambition.  Your  book  proves  that  you 
have.  You  have  taken  tin-  .subject  treated  by  Wiggins 
iu  his  last  great  novel.  It  made  a  sensation,  but  in  my 
opinion  you  have  handled  it  better  than  he  did,  though 
IK-  is  -ailed  a  great  novelist.  It  was  a  very  ambitious 
tiling  to  do.  and  it  is  wonderful  that,  while  taking  a 
precisely  similar  situation,  there  should  not  l>e  a  word 
in  your  work  that  recalls  his.  After  this,  do  not  tell 
me  that  you  have  no  ambition,  for  it  is  sheer  nonsense. 
\  -  for  the  last  chapter,  I  should  not  have  known  that  it 
\\as  not  written  under  the  same  circumstances  as  all  the 
rest" 

George  laughed  aloud  to  himself.  He  knew  the  name 
of  \Yiggins  well  enough,  but  he  had  never  read  one  of 
the  celebrated  author's  books,  and  if  he  had  he  would 
assuredly  not  have  taken  his  plot. 

"But  Johnson  could  not  know  that,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  "and  I  have  written  just  such  stuff  about  other 
people." 

The  book  went  to  the  publisher  and  he  thought  no 
more  of  it.  During  the  time  that  followed,  his  days 
very  fully  oeeujiied.  Hetween  making  the  neces- 
-ary  preparations  for  his  approaching  marriage,  and  the 
pleasant  duty  of  spending  a  certain  number  of  hours  with 
Mamie  every  day.  he  had  very  little  time  to  call  his  own. 
although  nothing  of  any  importance  happened  to  vary 
the  course  of  his  life.  At  the  beginning  of  November 
Constance  Fearing  and  her  Bister  returned  to  town,  and 
at  about  the  same  time  he  was  informed  by  Sherrington 
Trimm  that  it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to  visit  Mr. 
Thomas  ('raik.  as  he  was  about  to  become  that  gentle 
man's  nephew  by  marriage. 

"Of  course,  I  know  all  about  the  «,ld  stor\.  Ceorge," 
-aid  Sherry.  "Hut  if  I  were  you  I  w<>uld  at  least  try 
and  be  civil.  The  fact  is.  I  have  rcaxm  to  know  that  lie 
is  haunted  by  a  sort  ..|  half-stagey,  half-honest  remorse 
tor  what  he  did,  and  he  is  very  much  p]ea>ed  with  the 
marriage,  besides  l>eing  a  great  admirer  of  your  books." 


THE  THREE   FATES.  351 

"All  right,"  said  George,  "I  will  be  civil  enough." 
Sherry  Trimm  had  conveyed  exactly  the  impression 
which  he  had  desired  to  convey.  He  had  made  George 
believe  by  his  manner  that  he  was  himself  anxious  to 
keep  his  relations  with  Mr.  Craik  on  a  pleasant  footing, 
doubtless  on  account  of  the  money,  and  he  had  effectu 
ally  deterred  George  from  quarrelling  with  his  unknown 
benefactor,  while  he  had  kept  the  question  of  the  will 
as  closely  secret  as  ever. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

George  had  never  been  inside  Mr.  Craik's  house,  and 
the  first  impression  made  upon  him  by  the  sight  of  the 
old  gentleman's  collected  spoil  was  a  singular  one.  The 
sight  of  beautiful  objects  had  always  given  him  pleasure, 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  his  mind  resented  and  abhorred 
alike  disorder  and  senseless  profusion.  He  had  no  touch 
in  his  composition  of  that  modern  taste  which  delights 
in  producing  a  certain  tone  of  colour  *iu  a  room,  by  fill 
ing  it  with  all  sorts  of  heterogeneous  and  useless  arti 
cles,  of  all  periods  and  collected  out  of  all  countries. 
It  was  not  sufficient  in  his  eyes  that  an  object  should  be 
of  great  value,  or  of  great  beauty,  or  that  it  should 
possess  both  at  once;  it  was  necessary  also  that  it  should 
be  so  placed  as  to  acquire  a  right  to  its  position  and  to 
its  surroundings.  A  Turkish  tile,  a  Spanish-Moorish 
dish,  an  Italian  embroidery  and  an  old  picture  might 
harmonise  very  well  with  each  other  in  colour  and  in 
general  effect,  but  George  Wood's  uncultivated  taste 
failed  to  see  why  they  should  all  be  placed  together, 
side  by  side  upon  the  same  wall,  any  more  than  why 
a  periwig  should  be  set  upon  a  soup-tureen,  as  Johnson 
had  remarked.  He  felt  from  the  moment  he  entered  the 
house  as  if  he  were  in  a  bazaar  of  bric-a-brac,  where 


352  1  Hh    l  Hi;  1. 1.    1  ATE8. 

everything  was  put  up  for  -ale,  and  in  whirh  each  object 
must  have  some wlirn-  a  label  tied  or  pasted  to  it,  upon 
which  letters  and  figure*  mysteriously  shadowed  forth 
its  variable  price  to  tin-  pun-haser  while  accurately  defin 
ing  its  value  t<>  the  vendor. 

It  must  not  l.e  supposed,  however,  that  localise  (I eorge 
\\<>od  did  not  like  the  look  of  the  room  in  which  he  found 
himself,  it  would  not  have  Keen  admired  and  appreciated 
by  many  persons  of  unquestioned  good  taste.  The  value 
there  accumulated  was  very  great,  there  was  much  that 
was  exceedingly  rare  and  of  exquisite  design  and  work 
manship,  and  the  vulgarity  of  the  effect,  if  there  were 
any,  was  of  the  more  subtle  and  tolerable  kind. 

George  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  chamber,  hat  in  hand, 
waiting  for  the  owner  of  the  collection  to  appear.  \ 
door  made  of  panels  of  thin  alabaster  set  in  rich  old  gilt 
carvings,  was  opposite  to  him,  and  he  was  wondering 
whether  the  light  actually  penetrated  the  delicate  marble 
as  it  seemed  to  do.  when  the  chiselled  handle  turned  and 
the  door  itself  moved  noiselessly  on  its  hinges.  Thomas 
Craik  entered  the  room. 

The  old  gentleman's  head  seemed  to  have  fallen  for 
ward  upon  his  shoulders,  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  look 
sideways  and  upwards  in  order  to  see  anything  above  the 
level  of  his  eyes.  Otherwise  he  did  not  present  so  de 
crepit  an  appearance  as  George  had  expected.  His  step 
was  sufficiently  brisk,  and  though  his  voice  was  little 
Letter  than  a  growl,  it  was  not  by  any  means  weak.  He 
was  .-lot  hed  in  light -coloured  tweed  garments  of  the 
newest  cut.  and  he  wore  a  red  tie.  and  shoes  of  varnished 
leather.  The  corner  of  a  pink  silk  handkerchief  wa> 
just  visible  alx)ve  the  outer  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  he 
emanated  a  perfume  which  seemed  to  be  combined  out 
ot  Cologne  water  and  Russian  leather. 

"OthVial  visit,  eh?"  he  said  with  an  attempt  at  a 
pleasant  smile.  "Glad  to  see  you.  Sorry  you  have 
waited  so  long  before  coming.  Take  a  seat." 

11  Thanks,"  answered  George,  sitting  down.  "I  am  glad 
to  see  that  you  are  quite  yourself  again,  Mr.  Craik." 


THE   THREE   FATES.  858 

"Quite  myself,  eh?  Never  was  anybody  else  long 
enough  to  know  what  it  felt  like.  But  I  have  not  for 
gotten  that  you  came  to  ask  —  no,  no,  I  remember  that. 
Going  to  marry  Mamie,  eh?  Glad  to  hear  it.  Well, 
well." 

Thomas  Craik  rubbed  his  emaciated  hands  slowly  to 
gether  and  looked  sideways  at  his  visitor. 

"Yes,"  said  George,  "I  am  going  to  marry  Miss 
Trimm  — 

"  Call  her  Mamie,  call  her  Mamie  —  own  niece  of  mine, 
you  know.  No  use  standing  on  ceremony." 

"  I  think  it  is  as  well  to  call  her  Miss  Trimm  until  we 
are  married,"  George  observed,  rather  coldly. 

"Oh,  you  think  so,  do  you?  Well,  well.  Not  to  her 
face,  I  hope?" 

George  thought  that  Mr.  Craik  was  one  of  the  most 
particularly  odious  old  gentlemen  he  had  ever  met.  He 
changed  the  subject  as  quickly  as  he  could. 

"  What  a  wonderful  collection  of  beautiful  things  you 
have,  Mr.  Craik,"  he  said,  glancing  at  a  set  of  Urbino 
dishes  that  were  fastened  against  the  wall  nearest  to 
him. 

"Something,  something,"  replied  Mr.  Craik,  modestly. 
"  Fond  of  pretty  things?  Understand  majolica?  " 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  pretty  things,  but  I  know  nothing 
about  majolica.  I  believe  the  subject  needs  immense 
study.  They  say  you  are  a  great  authority  on  all  these 
things." 

"Oh,  they  say  so,  do  they?  Well,  well.  Books  are 
more  in  your  line,  eh?  Some  in  the  other  room  if  you 
like  to  see  them.  Come?" 

"Yes  indeed!"  George  answered  with  alacrity.  He 
thought  that  if  he  must  sustain  the  conversation  for  five 
minutes  longer,  it  would  be  a  relief  to  be  among  things 
he  understood.  Tom  Craik  rose  and  led  the  way  through 
the  alabaster  door  by  which  he  had  entered.  George 
found  himself  in  a  spacious  apartment,  consisting  of  two 
rooms  which  had  been  thrown  into  one  by  building  an 

2  A 


854  im.    IHKKI.   i  \  i  •& 

;uvh  in  the  place  of  the  former  wall  of  division.  There 
im  windows,  but  each  division  was  lighted  by  a 
large  skylight  of  stained  glass,  supported  on  old  Bohe 
mian  iron-work.  To  the  height  of  six  feet  from  the  floor, 
the  walls  wen-  lim-d  with  bookcases,  the  books  being 
protected  by  glass.  A l>o\e  these  the  walls  were  com 
pletely  covered  with  tapestries,  shifts,  weapons,  old 
plates  and  similar  objects. 

"Favourite  room  of  mine,"  remarked  Mr.  Craik, 
harking  up  to  the  great  wood  tire,  and  looking  ahout 
him  with  side  glances,  first  to  the  right  and  then  to  the 
left.  "  Look  abnut  you.  look  about  you.  A  lot  of  books 
in  those  shelves,  eh?  Well,  well.  About  three  thou 
sand.  Not  many  but  good  and  good,  as  books  should  he. 
inside  and  out.  Eh?  Like  that1.'  " 

"  Yes,"  said  (ieorge,  moving  slowly  round  the  room, 
stooping  and  then  standing  erect,  as  he  glanced  rapidly 
at  the  titles  of  the  long  rows  of  volumes.  The  horn  man 
of  letters  warmed  at  the  sight  of  the  familiar  names  and 
felt  less  inimically  inclined  towards  the  master  of  tin- 
house. 

"I  envy  you  such  Ixjoks  to  read  and  such  a  place  m 
which  to  read  them,"  he  said  at  last. 

"I  believe  you  do."  answered  Mr.  Craik.  looking 
pleased.  ••  You  look  as  if  you  did.  AN  ell.  well.  Ma\ 
be  all  yours  some  day." 

"  H"\\  BO?W  George  inquired,  gmwing  suddenly  cold 
and  looking  .sharply  at  the  old  man. 

"May  leave  everything  to  Totty.  Totty  ma\  lea\e 
•  •\-er\thing  '"  Mamie.  Kact  is,  any  station  maybe  the 
last.  May  have  to  hand  in  my  checks  at  any  time, 
runny  world,  isn't  if.'  Kh?" 

"  A  very  humorous  and  comic  world,  as  you  say," 
Gfeoige  answered,  looking  at  the  old  man  with  a  rather 
-conil'ul  twist  ot  his  naturally  scornful  mouth. 

"Humorous  and  comic?  I  say.  lunn\.  It's  shorter. 
What  would  you  do  it  you  owned  this  house?" 

"I  would  sell  it."  (ieorge  aiis\\eied  with  a  dry  laugh, 


THE   THKEE   FATES.  355 

"  sell  it,  except  the  books,  and  live  on  the  interest  of  the 
proceeds." 

"  And  you  would  do  a  very  sensible  thing,  Mr.  George 
Winton  Wood,"  returned  Tom  Graik  approvingly.  All 
at  once  he  dropped  his  detached  manner  of  speaking  and 
grew  eloquent.  "  You  would  be  doing  a  very  sensible 
thing.  A  man  of  your  age  can  have  no  manner  of  use 
for  all  this  rubbish.  If  you  ever  mean  to  be  a  collector, 
reserve  that  expensive  taste  for  the  time  when  you  have 
plenty  of  money,  but  can  neither  eat,  drink,  sleep,  make 
love  nor  be  merry  in  any  way  —  no,  nor  write  novels 
either.  The  pleasure  does  not  consist  in  possessing 
things,  it  lies  in  finding  them,  bargaining  for  them, 
fighting  for  them  and  ultimately  getting  them.  It  is  the 
same  with  money,  but  there  is  more  variety  in  collect 
ing,  to  my  mind,  at  least.  It  is  the  same  with  every 
thing,  money,  love,  politics,  collecting,  it  is  only  the 
fighting  for  what  you  want  that  is  agreeably  exciting. 
It  has  kept  me  alive,  with  my  wretched  constitution, 
when  the  doctors  have  been  thinking  of  sending  for  the 
person  in  black  who  carries  a  tape  measure.  I  never  had 
any  ambition.  I  never  cared  for  anything  but  the  fight- 
Jug.  I  never  cared  to  be  first,  second  or  third.  I  do  not 
believe  that  your  ambitious  man  ever  succeeds  in  life. 
He  thinks  so  much  about  himself  that  he  forgets  what 
he  is  fighting  for.  You  can  easily  make  a  fool  of  an 
ambitious  man  by  offering  him  a  bait,  and  you  may  take 
the  thing  you  want  while  he  is  chasing  the  phantom  of 
glory  on  the  other  side  of  the  house.  I  hope  you  are  not 
ambitious.  You  have  begun  as  if  you  were  not,  and  you 
have  knocked  all  the  stuffing  out  of  the  rag  dolls  the 
critics  put  up  to  frighten  young  authors.  I  have  read  a 
good  deal  in  my  day,  and  I  have  seen  a  good  deal,  and  I 
have  taken  a  great  many  things  I  have  wanted.  I  know 
men,  and  I  know  something  about  books.  You  ought  to 
succeed,  for  you  go  about  your  work  as  though  you  liked 
it  for  the  sake  of  overcoming  difficulties,  for  the  sake  of 
fighting  your  subject  and  getting  the  better  of  it.  Stick 


356  i  in     i  MI:KI.  i-  AM..-. 

to  that  principle.  It  p n>l. mgs  lit.-.  I'i.-k  out  the  hardest 
tiling  there  is  to  be  done,  and  go  at  it.  hammer  and  tongs, 
l.y  hook  or  by  crook,  by  fair  means  or  foul.  If  y«m  can 
not  do  it.  after  all,  nobody  need  be  the  wiser;  if  you 
Micceed  every  one  will  cry  out  in  admiration  of  your  in 
dustry  and  genius,  when  you  have  really  only  been 
amusing  yourself  all  the  time  —  because  nothing  can  1"' 
more  amusing  than  fighting.  You  are  quite,  right.  Am- 
bitimi  is  nonsense  and  the,  satisfaction  of  possession  is 
bosh.  The  only  pleasure  is  in  doing  and  getting.  If.  in 
the  inscrutable  ways  of  destiny,  you  ever  o\vn  this 
house,  sell  it,  and  when  you  are  old,  and  crooked,  and 
cannot  write  any  more.  ;md  people  think  you  are  a  driv 
elling  idiot  and  are  sitting  in  rows  outside  your  door, 
waiting  for  dead  men's  shot's  —  why  then,  you  can  j.ro- 
lnn«r  your  life  by  collecting  something,  as  I  have  done. 
The  desire  to  ^<>\  the  U-tter  of  a  Jew  dealer  in  a  bargain 
for  a  Maestro  (Jem-gin,  or  the  determination  to  tind  the 
edition  which  has  IM-CH  heard  <»f  but  never  seen,  will 
make  your  blood  circulate  and  your  heart  beat,  and  your 
brain  work.  I  have  half  a  mind  to  sell  the  whole  thin- 
myself  for  the  >ake  of  doing  it  all  over  again,  and  keep 
ing  somebody  waiting  ten  years  longer  for  the  money. 
I  might  la>t  ten  years  more  if  I  enuld  hit  upon  some 
thing  new  to  collect." 

The  old  man  ceased  >praking  and  looked  up  side\\;i\- 
at  (Jem-gr.  with  a  keen  smile,  very  unlike  the  BXpmsiOD 
he  assumed  when  he  meant  to  be  agreeable.  Then  he 
relapsed  into  his  usual  way  of  talking,  jerking  out  short 

•MMiteiirrs  ;iild  generally  Oinitti  1»: g  the  subject    or  the  verb. 

when  he  did  not  omit  both.  It  is  possible  that  he  had 
delivered  his  oration  I'm-  the  sake  of  showing  George 
that  he  could  speak  Kngli>h  as  \\ell  as  any  one  when  he 
chose  to  dn  MI. 

"Like  my  little  speech1/      KhV"   he  inquired. 

"I  shall  n«»t  forget  it .  "  (  ',<-«i  ge  answered.     "  Your  ideas 

•  •annnt  be  accused  ot    being  stale  or  old  fashioned,  what- 

•  -I  else  may  be  >aid  of  them." 


THE   THREE   FATES.  857 

"Put  them  into  a  book,  will  you?  Well,  well.  Dare 
say  printer's  ink  has  been  wasted  on  worse  —  some 
times." 

George  did  not  care  to  prolong  his  visit  beyond  the 
bounds  of  strict  civility,  though  he  had  been  somewhat 
diverted  by  his  relation's  talk.  He  asked  a  few  ques 
tions  about  the  books  and  discovered  that  Tom  Craik 
was  by  no  means  the  unreading  edition-hunter  he  had 
supposed  him  to  be.  If  he  had  not  read  all  the  three 
thousand  choice  volumes  he  possessed,  he  had  at  least 
a  very  clear  idea  of  the  contents  of  most  of  them. 

"Buying  an  author  and  not  reading  him,"  he  said,  "  is 
like  buying  a  pig  in  a  poke  and  then  not  even  looking  at 
the  pig  afterwards.  Eh?  " 

"Very  like,"  George  answered  with  a  short  laugh. 
Then  he  took  his  leave.  The  old  man  went  with  him 
as  far  as  the  door  that  led  out  of  the  room  in  which  they 
had  first  met. 

"Come  again,"  he  said.  "Bather  afraid  of  draughts, 
so  I  leave  you  here.  Good  day  to  you." 

George  took  the  thin  hand  that  was  thrust  out  at  him 
and  shook  it  with  somewhat  less  repulsion  that  he  had 
felt  a  quarter  of  an  hour  earlier.  The  sight  of  the  books 
had  softened  his  heart  a  little,  as  it  often  softens  the 
enmities  of  literary  men  when  they  least  .expect  it.  He 
turned  away  and  left  the  house,  wondering  whether,  after 
all,  old  Tom  Craik  had  not  been  judged  more  harshly 
than  he  deserved.  The  man  of  letters  is  slow  to  anger 
against  those  who  show  any  genuine  fondness  for  his 
profession. 

He  walked  down  the  avenue,  thinking  over  what  he 
had  seen  and  heard.  It  chanced  that  after  walking  some 
time  he  stepped  aside  to  allow  certain  ladies  to  pass  him 
and  on  looking  round  saw  that  he  was  in  the  door  of  Mr. 
Popples's  establishment.  A  thought  struck  him  and  he 
went  in. 

"Mr.  Popples  - 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Winton  Wood "     Mr.  Pop- 


35»  THE  TH  1:1.1: 

pies  thought  that  tin-  t\vo  names  sounded  better  to 
gether. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Popples.  T  want  to  ask  you  a 
confidential  question."  <;»M»rg«-  laughed  a  little. 

"Anything,  Mr.  Winton  Wood.  Something  in  regard 
to  the  sales,  no  doubt.  Well,  in  point  of  fact,  sir,  it  is 
just  as  well  to  ask  now  and  then  how  a  book  is  going, 
just  for  the  sake  of  checking  the  statement  as  we  say, 
though  I  will  say  that  Rob  Roy  and  Company  - 

"No,  no,"  George  interrupted  with  a  second  laugh. 
"They  treat  me  very  well.  You  know  Mr.  tjraik,  do 
you  not?" 

"Mr.  Craik!  "  exclaimed  the  bookseller,  with  a  beam 
ing  smile.  "Why,  dear  me!  Mr.  Craik  is  your  first 
cousin  once  removed,  Mr.  Winton  Wood!  of  eourse  I 
know  him."  He  prided  himself  on  knowing  the  exact 
degree  of  relationship  existing  between  his  different  cus 
tomers,  which  was  equivalent  to  knowing  by  heart  the 
genealogy  of  all  New  York  society. 

"You  are  a  subtle  flatterer,''  George  answered.  "  You 
pretend  to  know  him  only  because  In-  is  my  cousin." 

"A  great  collector,"  returned  the  other,  drawing  down 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  and  turning  up  his  eyes  U 
though  he  were  contemplating  an  object  of  solemn  beauty. 
"  A  great  collector!  He  knows  what  a  book  is,  old  or 
new.  He  knows,  lie  knows  —  oh  yes,  he  knows  very 

irell." 

"  What  I  want  to  know  is  this,"  said  George.  "  Does 
Mr.  (  raik  buy  my  books  or  not?  Do  you  happen  to  re- 

HH'lllhel  •'.'  " 

"Well,    Mr.   Winton   Wood,"  answered  Mr.   Popples, 

"the  ta.-t  is.  I  do  happen  to  remember,  by  the  merest 
chance.  The  tact  i>.  to  be  ImiH-st,  <|iiite  honest,  Mr. 
(  laik  dO6fl  H"t  buy  \our  bonks.  Uut  he  r»-ad>  them." 

•'  r»ori(»\\>    them.     I    Sllppn.sr."   oliSel'Ved    (irolge. 

"  \\'ell,  not  that.  exactl\,  either.  The  fact  is,"  said 
the  bookseller,  lowering  hi>  \«>ice  to  a  confidential  whis 
per,  "Mr*.  Slierringtoii  'I'rimm  buys  them  and  seud> 


THE   THREE   FATES.  359 

them  to  him.      He   buys   mostly  valuable   books,"   he 
added,  as  though  apologising  for  Mr.  Craik's  stinginess. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Popples,"  said  George,  laughing 
for  the  third  time,  and  turning  away. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,  Mr.  Winton  Wood.  Anything,  any 
thing.  Walking  this  mor " 

But  George  was  already  out  of  the  shop  and  the  book 
seller  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  pronounce  the  last  syl 
lable,  as  he  readjusted  his  large  spectacles  and  took  up 
three  or  four  volumes  that  lay  on  the  edge  of  the  table. 

"  It  cannot  be  said, "  George  thought,  as  he  walked  on, 
"  that  I  am  very  much  indebted  to  Mr.  Thomas  Craik  — 
not  even  for  ten  per  cent  on  one  dollar  and  twenty -five." 

George  would  have  been  very  much  surprised  to  learn 
that  the  man  who  would  not  spend  a  dollar  and  a  quarter 
in  purchasing  one  of  his  novels  had  left  him  everything 
he  possessed,  and  that  the  document  which  was  to  prove 
his  right  was  reposing  in  that  Indian  cabinet  of  Mrs. 
Trimm's,  which  he  had  so  often  admired.  It  seemed  as 
though  Totty  had  planned  everything  to  earn  his  grati 
tude,  and  he  was  especially  pleased  that  she  should  have 
made  her  miserly  brother  read  his  books.  It  showed  at 
once  her  own  admiration  for  them  and  her  desire  that 
every  one  belonging  to  her  should  share  in  it. 

Having  nothing  especial  to  do  until  a  later  hour, 
George  thought  of  going  to  see  Constance  and  Grace. 
They  had  only  been  in  town  two  days,  but  he  was  curious 
to  know  whether  Mrs.  Bond  had  begun  to  look  like  her 
self  again,  or  was  becoming  more  and  more  absorbed  in 
her  sorrow  as  time  went  on.  He  had  not  been  to  the 
house  in  Washington  Square  since  the  first  of  May,  and 
so  many  events  had  occurred  in  his  life  since  that  date 
that  he  felt  as  though  he  were  separated  from  it  by  an 
interval  of  years  instead  of  months.  The  time  had 
passed  very  quickly.  It  would  soon  be  three  years  since 
he  had  first  gone  up  those  steps  with  his  cousin  one  after 
noon  in  the  late  winter.  As  he  approached  the  familiar 
door,  he  thought  of  all  that  had  happened  in  the  time, 


360  THE    THREE    FATES. 

nml  he  was  ama/ed  to  find  how  lie  had  changed.  Six 
months  earlier  lie  had  descended  those  steps  with  the 
certainty  that  the  better  ;md  |W66t6(  part  of  his  life  was 
In-hind  him.  and  that  his  happiness  had  been  destroyed 
by  a  woman's  caprice.  It  had  been  a  rough  h-sMUi  but 
he  had  survived  the  ordeal  and  was  now  a  tar  happier 
man  than  he  had  been  then.  In  the  Hush  of  success,  hr 
was  engaged  to  marry  a  young  girl  who  loved  him  with 
all  her  heart,  and  whom  he  loved  ;IS  well  as  he  could. 
The  world  was  before  him  now,  as  it  had  not  been  then. 
when  he  had  felt  himself  dependent  for  his  inspiration 
upon  Constance's  attachment,  and  tor  the  help  he  needed 
upon  his  daily  converse  with  her.  If  his  heart  was  not 
satisfied  as  he  had  once  dreamed  that  it  might  be,  his 
hopes  were  raised  by  the  experience  of  self-reliance.  It 
had  once  seemed  bitter  to  work  alone;  he  had  now  ceased 
to  desire  any  companionship  in  his  labours.  Mamie  vrM 
to  be  his  wife,  not  his  adviser.  She  was  to  look  up  to 
him,  and  he  must  make  himself  worthy  of  her  trust  as  well 
as  of  her  admiration.  He  would  work  for  her,  labour  to 
make  her  happy,  to  the  extreme  extent  of  his  strength, 
and  he  would  be  proud  of  the  part  he  would  play.  She 
would  be  the  mother  of  children,  graceful  and  charming 
as  herself,  or  angular,  tough  and  hard-working  as  he  was. 
and  lie  and  >hc  would  love  them.  Hut  there  the  relation 
•'.-.i  f"  '-ease,  and  lie  wa>  glad  of  it.  He  owed  much  to 
Constance,  and  waa  ready  to  acknowledge  the  whole  debt, 
but  neither  <'on>tance  herself,  nor  any  other  woman 
could  take  the  same  place  in  his  life  again.  Least  of 
all,  she  herself,  he  thought,  as  he  rang  tin-  hell  of  her 
house  and  waited  for  admittance.  In  the  old  days  his 
heart  US»M!  to  beat  t'a.ster  than  its  wont  before  he  wa.s 
fairly  within  the  precincts  of  the  Square.  Now  he  was 
a>  unconscious  of  any  emotion  as  though  he  were  stand 
ing  before  hi>  own  door. 

Grace  received  him  alone  in  the  old  familiar  drawing- 
room.     She   happened  to  be  sitting  in  the  place  Con- 
u>ed  to  choose  when   (Jeorge  came  to  see  her,  and 


THE   THREE   FATES.  361 

he  took  his  accustomed  seat,  almost  unconscious  of  the 
associations  it  had  once  had  for  him. 

"Constance  is  gone  out,"  Grace  began.  "I  am  sure 
she  will  be  sorry.  It  is  kind  of  you  to  come  so  soon." 

"You  are  no  better,"  George  answered,  looking  at  her, 
and  not  heeding  her  remark.  "I  had  hoped  that  you 
might  be,  but  your  expression  is  the  same.  Why  do  you 
not  go  abroad,  and  make  some  great  change  in  your  life?  " 

"  I  am  very  well, "  Grace  replied  with  a  faint  smile 
which  only  increased  the  sadness  of  her  look.  "I  do 
not  care  to  go  away.  Why  should  I?  It  could  make  no 
difference." 

"But  it  would.  It  would  make  all  the  difference  in 
the  world.  Your  sorrow  is  in  everything,  in  all  you 
see,  in  all  you  hear,  in  every  familiar  impression  of 
your  life  —  even  in  me  and  the  sight  of  me." 

"You  are  mistaken.  It  is  here."  She  pressed  her 
hand  to  her  breast  with  a  gesture  almost  fierce,  and 
fixed  her  deep  brown  eyes  on  George's  face  for  an 
instant.  Then  she  let  her  arm  fall  beside  her  and  looked 
away.  "The  worst  of  it  is  that  I  am  so  strong,"  she 
added  presently.  "  I  shall  never  break  down.  I  shall 
live  to  be  an  old  woman. " 

"Yes,"  George  answered,  thoughtfully,  "I  believe 
that  you  will.  I  can  understand  that.  I  fancy  that 
you  and  I  are  somewhat  alike.  There  are  people  who 
are  unhappy,  and  who  fade  away  and  go  out  like  a  lamp 
without  oil.  They  are  said  to  die  of  broken  hearts 
though  they  have  not  felt  half  as  much  happiness  or 
sorrow  as  some  tougher  man  and  woman  who  live  through 
a  lifetime  of  despair  and  disappointment." 

"Are  you  very  happy?  "  Grace  asked  rather  suddenly. 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  happy.  I  suppose  I  have  reason  to 
be.  Everything  has  gone  well  with  me  of  late.  I  have 
had  plenty  of  success  with  what  I  have  done,  I  am 
engaged  to  be  married 

"That  is  what  I  mean,"  said  Grace,  interrupting  him. 
"Are  you  happy  in  that?  I  suppose  I  have  no  right  to 


362  THE   THREE    FATES. 

ask  such  a  «|iiestion.  1'ut  I  cannot  help  asking  it.  You 
ought  to  be,  for  you  two  are  very  well  matched.  Do 
you  know?  It  is  a  very  fortunate  thing  that  Constance 
rcfiiM-d  you.  You  (lid  n«»t  really  love  her  any  more  than 
sin-  loved  you." 

"What  makes  you  laj  that?" 

"If  you  were  really  in  love,  your  love  died  a  rather 
easy  death.  That  is  all." 

"That  is  true,"  George  answered,  smiling  in  spite  of 
himself. 

"Do  you  remember  tin-  tir>t  <»j  May  as  well  as  you 
did  three  months  ago?  Perhaps.  I  do  not  siy  tliat  you 
have  forgotten  it  altogether.  \Vlien  I  told  you  her  de 
rision,  yon  did  not  act  like  a  man  \vlio  lias  received  ;) 
terrible  blow.  You  were  furiously,  outrageously  angry. 
You  wished  that  I  had  been  a  man,  that  yon  might  have 
struck  me." 

"I  believed  that  I  had  cause  to  be  angry.  Besides,  I 
have  extraordinary  natural  gifts  in  that  direction." 

"Of  course  you  had  eanse.  Hut  it  you  had  loved  her 
—  as  some  people  love  —  you  would  have  forgotten  to  be 
angry  for  once  in  your  lite  and  you  would  have  behaved 
very  differently." 

"I  daresay  you  are  right.  As  I  came  here  to-day  I 
was  thinking  over  it  all.  You  know  I  have  not  been 
here  since  that  day.  In  old  times  I  could  feel  my  heart 
beating  faster  as  I  came  near  tin •  house,  and  when  I  rang 
the  bell  my  hand  used  to  tremble.  To-day  I  walked 
here  as  coolly  as  though  1  had  beni  going  home,  and 
when  I  was  at  the  door  I  was  much  more  concerned  to 
know  whether  \  on  were  better  than  to  know  whether 
your  >ister  wa>  in  the  house  or  not.  Such  is  the  niista- 
bility  of  the  human  heart." 

"Yes  —  when  there  is  no  real  love  in  it,"  (irace 
an>wered.  "And  the  strongest  proof  that  there  was 
none  in  yours  is  that  \  oil  arc  willing  to  own  it.  What 
made  you  think  that  you  were  SO  fond  of  her?  How 
came  you  to  make  such  a  mistake?" 


THE   THREE   FATES.  363 

"  I  cannot  tell.  I  would  not  talk  to  any  one  else  as  I 
am  talking  to  you.  But  we  understand  each  other,  she 
is  your  sister  and  you  never  believed  in  our  marriage. 
It  began  very  gradually.  Any  man  would  fall  in  love 
with  her,  if  he  had  the  chance.  She  was  interested  in 
me.  She  was  kind  to  me,  when  I  got  little  kindness 
from  any  one " 

"  And  none  at  all  from  me,  poor  man !  "  interrupted 
Grace. 

"  Especially  none  from  you.  It  was  she  who  always 
urged  me  to  write  a  book,  though  I  did  not  believe  I 
could;  it  was  to  her  that  I  read  my  first  novel  from 
beginning  to  end.  It  was  she  who  seized  upon  it  and 
got  it  published  in  spite  of  my  protests  —  it  was  she  who 
launched  me  and  made  my  first  success  what  it  was.  I 
owe  her  very  much  more  than  I  could  ever  hope  to 
repay,  if  I  possessed  any  means  of  showing  my  gratitude. 
I  loved  her  for  her  kindness  and  she  liked  me  for  my 
devotion  —  perhaps  for  my  submission,  for  I  was  very 
submissive  in  those  days.  I  had  not  learned  to  run 
alone,  and  if  she  would  have  had  me  I  would  have 
walked  in  her  leading-strings  to  the  end  of  my  life." 

"  How  touching !  "  exclaimed  Grace,  and  the  first  gen 
uine  laughter  of  which  she  had  been  capable  for  three 
months  followed  the  words. 

"No,  do  not  laugh,"  said  George  gravely.  "I  owe 
her  everything  and  I  know  it.  Most  of  all,  I  owe  her 
the  most  loyal  friendship  and  sincere  gratitude  that  a 
man  can  feel  for  any  woman  he  does  not  love.  It  is  all 
over  now.  I  never  felt  any  emotion  at  meeting  her 
since  we  parted  after  that  abominable  dinner-party,  and 
I  shall  never  feel  any  again.  I  am  sure  of  that." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  laughed.  I  could  not  help  it.  But  I 
am  very  glad  that  things  have  ended  in  this  way,  though, 
as  I  told  you  when  I  last  saw  you,  I  wish  she  would 
marry.  She  has  grown  to  be  the  most  listless,  unhappy 
creature  in  the  world." 

"What  can  be  the  matter?"   George   asked.     "Is  it 


364  THE    THREE    FATES. 

not  the  life  you  an-  leading  together'.1  You  are  so 
lonely." 

"I  cam.-  back  on  her  account."  Gtiaoe  answered  wear 
ily.  "For  my  own  sake  I  would  never  ha\e  l.-tt  that 
dear  place  again.  I  have  tol<l  her  tliat  I  will  do  an\ - 
thing  she  pleaaeS,  go  an\  \\here.  live  in  any  other  way. 
It  can  make  no  difference  to  in.-.  Hut  she  will  not  hear 
ot  leaving  New  York.  I  cannot  mention  it  to  her.  Sin- 
grows  thinner  every  day." 

••  It  i-  \ci\   strange.     I  am  \.-i\  tony  to  hear  it.'' 

They  talked  together  lor  some  time  longer  and  then 
iM-orge  \\ent  away,  inwardly  wondering  at  his  own  con 
duct  in  having  spoken  ot  Constance  ><>  tieely  to  her 
^i-ter.  It  \va>  not  unnatural,  however.  (Jracr  treated 
him  as  an  old  friend,  and  circumstances  had  suddenly 
brought  the  two  into  relations  of  close  int  iuia< -\ .  A-  she 
had  been  chosen  by  Constance  to  convey  the  latter's 
refusal,  it  might  well  be  supposed  that  .she  was  in  her 
sister's  confidence,  and  (ienrue  had  >aid  nothing  whiob 
he  was  not  willing  that  (Jiace  should  repeat.  He  had 
not  been  gone  more  than  halt  an  hour  when  (Vmstance 
entered  the  room,  looking  pale  and  tired. 

*'I  have  been  everywhere  to  tind  a  wedding  present 

for  the  future  Mi-.  Wood."  she  said,  as  she  let  herself 
sink  down  upon  the  -MI fa.  "  I  can  tind  nothing,  posi 
tively  nothing  that  will  d<>." 

"  He  ha-  just  Keen  here."  said  (irace  indifferently. 

Constance  changed  colour  and  glanced  ipiickly  at  her 
sister.  She  looked  as  though  she  had  checked  herself 
in  the  act  of  saying  something  which  she  might  have 

regretted 

"What  diil  you  talk  about1.'"  she  asked  <|iiietly,  after 
a  moment's  pau>e.  "I  wish  I  had  been  here.  I  have 
not  seen  him  since  he  came  to  announce  his  engage 
ment  " 

•  Yes.  He  was  snn-y  to  miss  you,  too.  He  was  not 
particularly  agreeable — considering  how  well  he  can 
talk  when  he  tries.  I  :im  very  fond  of  him  now.  I  am 


THE   THREE   FATES.  365 

sorry  I  misjudged  him  formerly,  and  I  told  him  so 
before  he  came  to  town." 

"  You  have  discovered  that  you  misjudged  him,  then,'' 
said  Constance,  as  calmly  as  she  could. 

"Yes,"  Grace  answered  with  perfect  unconcern.  "T 
am  always  glad  to  see  him.  By-the-bye,  we  talked 
about  you." 

"About  me?" 

"Yes.  What  is  the  matter?  Is  there  any  reason  why 
we  should  not  talk  about  you?  " 

"Oh,  none  whatever* — except  that  he  loved  me  once." 

"He  said  nothing  but  what  was  perfectly  fair  and 
friendly.  I  asked  him  if  he  was  happy  in  the  prospect 
of  being  married  so  soon,  and  then  very  naturally  we 
spoke  of  you.  He  said  that  he  owed  you  the  most  loyal 
friendship  and  sincere  gratitude,  that  you  had  launched 
him  in  his  career  by  sending  his  first  novel  to  the  pub 
lisher  without  his  consent,  that  without  you,  he  would 
not  have  been  what  he  is  —  he  said  it  seemed  natural, 
on  looking  back,  that  he  should  have  loved  you,  or 
thought  that  he  loved  you 

"Thought  that  he  loved  me?"  Constance  repeated  in 
a  low  voice. 

"Yes.  Considering  how  quickly  he  has  recovered, 
his  love  can  hardly  have  been  much  more  sincere  than 
yours.  What  is  the  matter,  Conny  dear?  Are  you  ill?" 

Constance  had  hidden  her  face  in  the  cushions  and 
was  sobbing  bitterly,  in  the  very  place  she  had  occupied 
when  she  had  finally  refused  George  Wood,  and  almost 
in  the  same  attitude. 

"  Oh  Grace !  "  she  moaned.   "  You  will  break  my  heart !  " 

"Do  you  love  him,  now?"  Grace  asked  in  a  voice  that 
was  suddenly  hard.  She  had  not  had  the  least  sus 
picion  of  the  real  state  of  the  case.  Constance  nodded 
in  answer,  still  sobbing  and  covering  her  face.  Grace 
turned  away  in  disgust. 

"  What  contemptible  creatures  we  women  can  be !  " 
she  said  in  an  undertone,  as  she  crossed  the  room. 


366  THE   THREE    FATES. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

<icorge  was  in  the  habit  of  g«>ing  to  see  Mamie  every 
afternoon,  and  the  hours  he  spoilt  with  hrr  wnv  by  far 
the  most  pleasant  in  his  day.  Mrs.  Trimm  had  thor 
oughly  understood  her  daughter'*  nature  when  she  had 
told  George  that  the  girl  possessed  that  sort  of  charm 
which  never  wearies  men  because  they  can  never  find 
"lit  exactly  where  it  lies.  It  was  not  easy  to  imagine 
that  any  one  should  be  bored  in  Mamie's  society.  George 
returned  day  after  day.  expecting  always  that  he  must 
ultimately  find  the  continual  conversation  a  burden,  but. 
reassured  each  time  by  what  lie  felt  after  he  had  been 
twenty  minutes  in  the  house.  As  he  was  not  profoundly 
moved  himself  it  seemed  unnatural  that  these  long  inert 
ings  should  not  at  last  become  an  irksome  and  uninter 
esting  duty,  the  conscientious  performance  of  which 
would  react  to  the  disadvantage  of  his  subsequent  hap 
piness.  The  spontaneity  which  had  given  so  much 
freshness  to  their  intercourse  while  they  were  living 
under  the  same  roof,  was  gone  now  that  George  found 
himself  compelled  to  live  by  rules  of  consideration  for 
others,  and  he  was  aware  of  the  fact  each  t  ime  he  entered 
Mamie's  presence.  Nevertheless  hrr  manner  and  voice 
e\.-rrised  such  a  fascination  over  him  as  made  him  for- 
-rt  after  a  <piarter  of  an  hour  that  he  and  she  were  no 
longer  in  the  country,  ami  that  he  was  no  longi-r  free  t.. 
-re  her  or  not  see  her.  as  he  pleased,  independently  of  all 
formality  and  custom.  Nothing  '-"iild  have  demon- 
Ntrated  Mamie's  Mipenority  ovrr  most  y«>un^  womrn  of 
hrr  ai^r  morr  (dearly  than  this  fact.  The  situation  of 
affianced  roiiplrs  after  their  i-n^a^einent  is  announced  is 
very  generally  hard  to  sustain  with  dignity  on  either 
side,  but  is  more  especially  a  difficult  one  for  the  man. 
It  is  undoubtedly  rendered  more  easy  by  the  enjoyment, 
of  the  liberty  granted  among  Anglo-Saxons  in  such 


THE   TUKKfi   FATES.  367 

cases.  But  that  freedom  is  after  all  only  a  part  of  our 
whole  system  of  ideas,  and  as  we  all  expect  it  from  the 
first,  we  do  not  realise  that  our  position  is  any  more 
fortunate  than  that  of  the  young  French  gentleman,  who 
is  frequently  not  allowed  to  exchange  a  single  word  with 
his  bride  until  he  has  been  formally  affianced  to  her, 
and  who  may  not  talk  to  her  without  the  presence  of  a 
third  person  until  she  is  actually  his  wife.  Under  our 
existing  customs  a  young  girl  must  be  charming  indeed 
if  her  future  husband  can  talk  with  her  three  hours 
every  day  during  six  weeks  or  two  months  and  go  away 
each  time  feeling  that  his  visit  has  been  too  short. 
Neither  animated  conversation  nor  frequent  correspond 
ence  have  any  right  to  be  considered  as  tests  of  love. 
Love  is  not  to  be  measured  by  the  fluent  use  of  words, 
nor  by  an  easy  acquaintance  with  agreeable  topics,  nor 
yet  by  lavish  expenditure  in  postage-stamps.  George 
knew  all  this,  and  was  moreover  aware  in  his  heart  that 
there  was  nothing  desperately  passionate  in  his  affec 
tion;  he  was  the  more  surprised,  therefore,  to  find  that 
the  more  he  saw  of  Mamie  Trimm,  the  more  he  wished 
to  see  of  her. 

"  Do  you  think, "  he  said  to  her,  on  that  same  after 
noon  in  November,  "  that  all  engaged  couples  enjoy  their 
engagement  as  much  as  we  do?" 

"I  am  sure  they  do  not,"  Mamie  answered.  "Nobody 
is  half  as  nice  as  we  are !  " 

They  were  seated  in  a  small  boudoir  that  adjoined  the 
drawing-room.  The  wide  door  was  open  and  they  could 
hear  the  pleasant  crackling  of  the  first  wood  fire  that 
was  burning  in  the  larger  room,  though  they  could  not 
see  it.  The  air  without  was  gloomy  and  grey,  for  the 
late  Indian  summer. was  over,  and  before  long  the  first 
frosts  would  come  and  the  first  flakes  of  snow  would  be 
driven  along  the  dry  and  windy  streets.  It  was  early 
in  the  afternoon,  however,  and  though  the  light  was  cold 
and  colourless  and  hard,  there  was  plenty  of  it.  Mamie 
was  established  in  a  short  but  very  deep  sofa,  something 


868  i  HI;  THI:KK  FATES. 

resembling  a  divan,  one  small  foot  just  touching  the 
carpet,  tin-  other  hidden  from  view,  her  head  thrown 
hack  and  resting  against  the  tapeMry  upon  the  wall,  one 
arm  resting  upon  the  end  of  the  lounge,  tin-  little  classic 
liand  hanging  over  the  edge,  so  near  to  George  that  he 
had  but  to  put  out  his  own  in  order  to  touch  it.  He  was 
seated  with  his  back  to  the  door  of  the  drawing-room. 
clasping  his  hands  over  one  knee  and  leaning  forward  u 
he  gazed  at  the  window  opposite.  He  smiled  at  Mamie's 
answer. 

"No,  I  am  sure  other  people  do  not  enjoy  sitting 
together  and  talking  during  half  the  day,  as  we  do,"  he 
said.  "  I  have  often  thought  so.  It  is  you  who  make 
our  life  what  it  is.  It  will  always  be  yon.  with  your 
dear  ways ' 

He  stopped,  seeking  an  expression  winch  he  could  not 
find  immediately. 

"Have  I  dear  ways?"  Mamie  asked  with  a  little 
laugh.  "I  never  knew  it  before  —  but  since  you  say 
so " 

"It  is  only  those  who  love  us  that  know  the  best  of 
us.  We  never  know  it  ourselves." 

"Do  you  love  me,  George?"  The  question  was  put 
to  him  for  the  thousandth  time.  To  her  it,  seemed 
always  new  and  the  ansuer  was  always  full  of  interest, 
a>  though  it  had  never  been  given  before. 

"Very  dearly."  George  laid  his  hand  upon  her  slen 
der  fingers  and  pressed  them  softh.  He  had  abandoned 
the  attempt  to  -ive  her  an  original  reply  at  each  repeti 
tion  of  the  inquiry. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  asked,  pretending  to  l»e  disap 
pointed,  but  smiling  with  her  grey  eyes. 

'•('an  a  man  sa\  more  and  mean  it'.'"  George  inquired 
rely,  Then  he  laughed.  "  The  ot  her  day.  "  he  con 
tinued.  "I  was  in  a  train  on  the  Klevated  Road.  There 
was  a  young  couple  opposite  to  me  —  the  woman  \ 
little  round  tat  creature  with  a  perpetual  smile,  pretty 
teeth,  and  dressed  in  grey.  The\  were  talking  in  low 


THE   THREE   FATES.  369 

tones,  but  I  heard  what  they  said.  Baby  language  was 
evidently  their  strong  point.  He  turned  his  head  towards 
her  with  the  most  languishing  lover-like  look  I  ever  saw. 
'Plumpety  itty  partidge,  who  does  'oo  love?'  he  asked. 
'  Zoo ! '  answered  the  little  woman  with  a  smile  that  went 
all  round  her  head  like  the  equator  on  a  globe." 

Mamie  laughed  as  he  finished  the  story. 

"  That  represented  their  idea  of  conversation,  what  you 
call  'dear  ways.'  My  dear  ways  are  not  much  like  that 
and  yours  are  quite  different.  When  I  ask  you  if  you 
love  me,  you  almost  always  give  the  same  answer.  But 
then,  I  know  you  mean  it  dear,  do  you  not?" 

"There  it  is  again!"  George  laughed.  "Of  course  I 
do  —  only,  as  you  say,  my  imagination  is  limited.  I 
cannot  find  new  ways  of  saying  it.  But  then,  you  do 
not  vary  the  question  either,  so  that  it  is  no  wonder  if 
my  answers  are  a  little  monotonous,  is  it?" 

"Are  my  questions  monotonous?  Do  I  bore  you  with 
them,  George?" 

"  No,  dear.  I  should  be  very  hard  to  please  if  you  bored 
me.  It  is  your  charm  that  makes  our  life  what  it  is." 

"I  wish  I  believed  that.  What  is  charm?  What  do 
you  mean  by  it?  It  is  not  an  intellectual  gift,  it  is  not 
a  quality,  a  talent,  nor  accomplishment.  I  believe  you 
tell  me  that  I  have  it  because  you  do  not  know  what  else 
to  say.  It  is  so  easy  to  say  to  a  woman  'You  are  full  of 
charm, '  when  she  is  ugly  and  stupid  and  cannot  play  on 
the  piano,  and  you  feel  obliged  to  be  civil.  I  am  sure 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  charm.  It  is  only  an  imag 
inary  compliment.  Why  not  tell  me  the  truth?" 

"  You  are  neither  ugly  nor  stupid,  and  I  am  sincerely 
glad  that  you  leave  the  piano  alone,"  said  George.  "I 
could  find  any  number  of  compliments  to  make,  if  that 
were  my  way.  But  it  is  not,  of  course.  You  have  lots 
of  good  points,  Mamie.  Look  at  yourself  in  the  glass  if 
you  do  not  believe  it.  Look  at  your  figure,  look  at  your 
eyes,  at  your  complexion,  at  your  hands  —  listen  to  your 
own  voice  — 

2  B 


370  TIIK    THREE   FATES. 

"Do  not  talk  nonsense,  lirnrgr.  r>es,des,  that  isonh 
a  catalogue.  If  you  want  to  please  in*-  you  must  com 
pan-  all  those  tilings  t<»  beautiful  objeets.  You  must  si \ 
that  my  eyei  arc  like —  £00860617160,  I'm-  installer,  m\ 
figure  like —  what  shall  I  say'.'" 

••  Like  Psyche's,"  suggested  (ieorge. 

"Or  like  an  hour-glass,  and  m\  hands  like  stuffed 
gloves,  and  my  skin  likr  a  corn  staivh  pudding,  and  my 
\oiee  lik«-  tin-  vi  lire  of  the  charmer.  That  is  the  wa\  to 
l»r  complimentary.  I'oetry  must  make  use  of  similrs  and 
call  a  spade  an  ace —  as  papa  says.  When  yon  have 
done  ;ill  that,  and  turned  your  catalogue  into  blank 
rene,  tell  me  if  there  is  anything  left  which  you  can 
call  charm." 

••Charm."  (Jeorge  answered,  "is  what  every  man  who 
luve>  a  \\omaii  thinks  she  has  —  and  if  she  has  it  all  men 
love  her.  You  have  it." 

"Dear  me!"  exclaimed  the  young  girl.  "Can  you 
get  no  nearer  to  a  definition  than  that?" 

"Can  yon  detin.-  anything  which  you  only  feel  and 
cannot  se«-  —heat  tor  instance,  or  cold'/" 

"  Heat  makes  one  hot,  and  cold  makes  one  shiver." 
answered  Mamie  promptly. 

"  And  charm  makes  a  woman  loved.  That  is  as  good 
an  answer  Rfl  yoiir>." 

••  I  siipp.,.sr  I  must  he  satisfied,  especially  as  you  sa\ 
that  it  can  only  be  felt  and  not  seen.  Besides,  if  it 
makes  yon  love  me.  why  should  1  care  what  it.  is  called'.' 
1  >o  \<,u  know  what  it  really  is?  It  is  love  itself.  It  U 
because  1  LOV€  you  so  much,  so  intensely,  that  I  make 
you  love  me.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  charm.  Charm 
U  either  a  woman's  love,  or  her  readings  to  love — one 
•  ir  the  other." 

Mamie  laughed  softly  and  moved  the  hand  that  wa> 
hanging  over  the  end  of  the  sofa,  as  though  seeking  the 
touch  ol  (M-orge's  lingers.  He  obeyed  the  little,  signal 

quite  unconsciously. 

"\\lio   can    that    be'.'"   Mamie   asked,   alter  a  moment's 


THE    THKEE    FATES.  871 

pause.  She  thought  that  she  had  heard  a  door  open  and 
that  some  one  had  entered  the  drawing-room.  George 
listened  a  few  seconds. 

"Xobody,"  he  said.     "It  was  only  the  fire." 

While  the  two  had  been  talking,  some  one  had  really 
entered  the  large  adjoining  room  as  Mamie  had  sus 
pected.  Thomas  Craik  was  not  in  the  habit  of  making- 
visits  in  the  afternoon,  but  on  this  particular  day  he  had 
found  the  process  of  being  driven  about  in  a  closed 
brougham  more  wearisome  than  usual,  and  it  had  struck 
him  that  he  might  find  Totty  at  home  and  amuse  himself 
with  teasing  her  in  some  way  or  other.  Totty  was  ex 
pected  every  moment,  the  servant  had  said,  and  the  dis 
creet  attendant  had  added  that  Mr.  George  and  Miss 
Mamie  were  in  the  boudoir  together.  Mr.  Craik  said  that 
he  would  wait  in  the  drawing-room,  to  which  he  was  ac 
cordingly  admitted.  He  knew  the  arrangement  of  the 
apartment  and  took  care  not  to  disturb  the  peace  of  the 
young  couple  by  making  any  noise.  It  would  be  ex 
tremely  entertaining,  he  thought,  to  place  himself  so  as 
to  hear  something  of  what  they  said  to  each  other;  he 
therefore  stepped  softly  upon  the  thick  carpet  and  took 
up  what  he  believed  to  be  a  favourable  position.  His 
hearing  was  still  as  sharp  as  ever,  and  he  did  not  go  too 
near  the  door  of  the  inner  room  lest  Totty,  entering  sud 
denly,  should  suppose  that  he  had  been  listening. 

"  So  you  think  that  I  only  love  you  because  you  love 
me,"  said  George.  "You  are  not  very  complimentary 
to  yourself." 

"  I  did  not  say  that,  though  that  was  the  beginning. 
You  would  never  have  begun  to  love  me  —  George,  I  am 
sure  there  is  some  one  in  the  next  room !  " 

"It  is  impossible.  Your  mother  would  have  come 
directly  to  us,  and  the  servants  would  not  have  let  any 
caller  go  in  while  she  was  out.  Shall  I  look?  " 

"No  —  you  are  quite  right,"  Mamie  answered.  "It 
is  only  the  crackling  of  the  fire."  She  was  holding  his 
hand  and  did  not  care  to  let  it  drop  in  order  that  he 
might  satisfy  her  curiosity.  "  What  was  1  saying?  " 


37'J  I  HI-,    i  Hl;i  i     t    \TE8. 

"Something  very  foolish  --about  my  not  loving  you." 

Thoma>  Craik  liMem-d  for  a  \\liil.  •  to  t  heir  conveisa 
tion,  eagerly  at  tirst  and  then  with  an  expression  of 
weariness  en  his  parchment  face.  He  had  been  afraid 
to  >it  down,  for  fear  of  making  a  noise,  and  In-  found 
himself  standing  before  a  table,  mi  which.  amon^  inan\ 
other  objects  was  placed  tin-  small  Indian  cabinet  h«-  hail 
OHee  .u'ivi-n  to  his  Vister  Many  years  liad  |.as>.-d  sin.-,- 
hr  luul  sent  it  to  ln-r.  lnit  hi>  kr«-n  niriuory  for  details 
liad  not  forgottrn  the  MCiel  di-awt-i'  it  contained,  nor  tin- 
\v;iy  to  oj.rn  it.  Hr  lookod  at  it  for  sonic  tiiur  nirinnsly. 
whether  Totty  kept  anything  "f  valu«>  in  it. 
it  Miurk  him  that  it'  sin-  really  kept  anything  eon- 
ce;il.-d  tin-re,  it  would  In-  an  excellent  practical  jok<-  t" 
take  out  tin-  object,  whatever  it  ini^ht  I.e.  and  curry  it 
olt.  'Hie  idea  was  in  accordance  with  that  part  of  his 
character  which  loved  secret  and  underhand  dealings. 
The  scene  which  would  ensue  when  he  ultimately  brought 
the  tiling  back  would  answer  the  other  halt  of  his  nature 
which  delighted  in  inflict  in,ur  brutal  and  jjratuitous  sur 
prises  upon  people  he  did  not  like.  He  laid  his  thin 
hands  gently  on  the  cabinet  and  proceeded  to  open  it  U 
noiselessly  as  lie  could. 

Mamie's  sharp  ears  were  m.t  deceived  this  time,  how- 
.  \.-r.      She  In-lit   foruard  and  whispered  to  GeOI 

••'There     is     Somebod\      tlicl'r.       (Jo    on    tijifoe    and    look 

from  behind  the  curtain.      Do  not  let  them   see   \oii.   or 
hall  have  to  ur"  in.  and    that   would  be  such   a    hoiv." 

George   obe\ed    ill    silence,   .stood   a    lllollielit    ]>eel'illU   into 

the  next  ronin.  concealed  liy  tiie  lian^in^s  and  then 
returned  to  Mamie's  >idc.  "It  is  your  l'n«-l«-  Tom."  he 
uhispered  witli  a  smile.  u  He  is  in  some  mischief.  1  am 
Niirr.  tor  he  is  opening  that  Indian  cabinet  a-,  though  he 
did  not  want  to  he  heard." 

"I   \\illtdl   mamma,    when    she   cmues    in  —  what    fun 

it    -.\  ill    be!"    Mamie   aii>\\cred.      "He    mu^t    have    heard 

us   before,    BO   that    we    must    tfo  on    talking  —  about  the 

iier."      Then    raising   her   voice   she   be^an    to  speak 

of  th«-ir  future  plan-. 


THE   THREE   FATES.  378 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Craik  liad  slipped  back  the  part  of  the 
cover  which  concealed  the  secret  drawer,  and  had  opened 
the  latter.  There  was  nothing  in  it  but  the  document 
which  Totty  kept  there.  He  quickly  took  it  out  and 
closed  the  cabinet  again.  Something  in  the  appearance 
of  the  paper  attracted  his  attention,  and  instead  of  put 
ting  it  into  his  pocket  to  read  at  home  and  at  his  leisure, 
as  he  had  intended  to  do,  he  unfolded  it  and  glanced  at 
the  contents. 

He  had  always  been  a  man  able  to  control  his  anger, 
unless  there  was  something  to  be  gained  by  manifesting 
it,  but  his  rage  was  now  far  too  genuine  to  be  concealed. 
The  veins  swelled  and  became  visible  beneath  the  tightly 
drawn  skin  of  his  forehead,  his  mouth  worked  spasmod 
ically  and  his  hands  trembled  with  fury  as  he  held  the 
sheet  before  his  eyes,  satisfying  himself  that  it  was  the 
genuine  document  and  not  a  forgery  containing  provis 
ions  different  from  those  he  had  made  in  his  own  will. 
As  soon  as  he  felt  no  further  doubt  about  the  matter,  he 
gave  vent  to  his  wrath,  in  a  storm  of  curses,  stamping 
up  and  down  the  room,  and  swinging  his  long  arms  as 
he  moved,  still  holding  the  paper  in  one  hand. 

Mamie  turned  pale  and  grasped  George  by  the  arm. 
He  would  have  risen  to  go  into  the  next  room,  but  she 
held  him  back  with  all  her  strength. 

"No  —  stay  here!"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "You 
can  do  no  good.  He  knew  we  were  here  —  something 
must  have  happened!  Oh,  George,  what  is  it?" 

"  If  you  will  let  me  go  and  see " 

But  at  that  moment,  it  became  evident  to  both  that 
Tom  Craik  was  no  longer  alone.  Totty  had  entered  the 
drawing-room.  As  the  servant  had  said,  she  had  been 
expected  every  moment.  Her  brother  turned  upon  her 
furiously,  brandishing  the  will  and  cursing  louder  than 
before.  In  his  extreme  anger  he  Avas  able  to  lift  up  his 
head  and  look  her  in  the  eyes. 

"You  damned  infernal  witch!"  he  shouted.  "You 
abominable  woman!  You  thief!  You  swindler!  You 


1  HL     MIKl.L     1   A  I  I.-. 

"Help!  help!"  screamed  Totty.  "He  is  mad  — he 
means  to  kill  me!  " 

"I  am  not  mad,  you  wretch!"  yelled  T«,m  Craik,  pur 
suing  her  and  eatehing  her  with  one  hand  while  In- 
shock  the  will  in  her  face  with  tin-  other.  ••  Look  at 
that  —  look  at  it!  My  will,  hen-  in  your  keeping,  with 
out  so  much  as  a  piece  of  paper  or  a  seal  to  hold  it —  \<>u 
thief!  You  have  broken  into  your  husband's  otliee.  \oii 
burglar!  You  have  broken  open  my  deed-box  —  look 
at  it!  Do  you  recognise  if/  Stand  Mill  and  answer  me, 
"i  I  will  hold  you  till  the  police  can  be  got.  Do  \ou 
gee?  The  last  will  and  testament  of  me  Thoma>  Craik, 
and  not  a  cent  tor  ( 'harlotte  Trimm.  N<»t  one  cent,  and 
not  one  shall  you  get  either.  He  shall  have  it  all, 
George  Winton  Wood,  shall  have  it  all.  Ah  —  I  see 
the  reason  why  you  have  kept  it  now—  If  I  had  found 
it  gone,  you  know  I  would  have  made  it  over  again! 
Cheaper,  and  wiser,  and  more  like  you  to  get  him  for  your 
daughter  —  of  course  it  was,  you  lying,  shameless  beast!  " 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  (ieorge  a>ked  in 
ringing  tones.  He  had  broken  away  1'rom  .Mamie  with 
difficulty  and  she  had  followed  him  into  the  room,  and 
now  stood  clinging  to  her  mother.  George  pushed  Tom 
Craik  back  a  little  and  placed  himself  l>etween  him  and 
Totty,  who  was  livid  with  terror  and  seemed  unable  to 
speak  a  word.  The  sudden  appearanee  of  ( Jeorge's  tall, 
angular  figure,  and  the  look  of  resolution  in  his  dark 
EMM  brought  Tom  Craik  to  his  sen>.--. 

"  You  want  to  know  the  meaning  of  it,"  he  said. 
"Quite  right.  You  shall.  When  I  was  dying  —  nearly 
three  years  ago,  1  made  a  will  in  your  1'avour.  1  left 
you  everything  I  have  in  the  world.  \Vh\  '.'  lleeau^-  I 
pleased.  This  woman  thought  .she  was  to  have  my 
money.  (>h,  you  might  have  had  it,  if  you  had  been 
Lett  infernally  greedy,"  he  cried,  turning  to  Totty. 
"This  will  was  deposited  in  my  deed-box  at  Sherr\ 
Trimm's  otliee.  Saw  it  then-,  on  the  top  ut  the  paper^ 
\\ith  my  own  eye>  the  hot  time  1  uent;  and  Sherry  \\as 


THE   THREE   FATES.  375 

in  Europe  then.  So  you  took  it,  and  no  one  else.  Poor 
Bond  did  not,  though  as  he  is  dead,  you  will  say  he  did. 
It  will  not  help  you.  So  you  laid  your  trap  —  oh  yes ! 
I  know  those  tricks  of  yours.  You  broke  off  George 
Wood's  marriage  with  the  girl  he  loved,  and  you  laid 
your  trap  —  very  nicely  done  —  very.  You  gave  him 
Sherry's  wines,  and  Sherry's  cigars  to  make  him  come. 
I  know  all  about  it.  I  was  watching  you.  And  you 
made  him  come  and  spend  the  summer  up  the  river  —  so 
nice,  and  luxurious,  and  quiet  for  a  poor  young  author. 
And  you  told  nobody  he  was  there  —  not  you !  I  can  see 
it  all  now,  the  moonlight  walks,  and  the  rides  and  the 
boating,  and  Totty  indoors  with  a  headache,  or  writing 
letters.  It  was  easy  to  get  Sherry's  consent  when  it  was 
all  arranged,  was  it  not?  Devilish  easy.  Sherry  is  an 
honest  man  —  I  know  men  —  but  he  knew  on  which  side 
his  daughter's  bread  was  buttered,  for  he  had  drawn  up 
the  will  himself.  He  did  not  mind  if  George  Winton 
Wood,  the  poor  author,  fell  in  love  with  his  daughter, 
any  more  than  his  magnanimous  wife  was  disturbed  by 
the  prospect.  Not  a  bit.  The  starving  author  was  to 
have  millions  —  millions,  woman !  as  soon  as  the  old 
brother  was  nailed  up  and  trundled  off  to  Greenwood! 
And  he  shall  have  them,  too.  It  only  remains  to  be 
seen  whether  he  will  have  your  daughter." 

Craik  paused  for  breath,  though  his  invalid  form  was 
as  invigorated  by  his  extreme  anger  as  to  make  it  appear 
that  he  might  go  on  indefinitely  in  the  same  strain.  As 
for  George  he  was  at  first  too  much  amazed  by  the  story 
to  believe  his  ears.  He  thought  Craik  was  mad,  and 
yet  the  presence  of  the  will  which  the  old  man  repeatedly 
thrust  before  his  eyes  and  in  which  he  could  not  help 
seeing  his  own  name  written  in  the  lawyer's  large  clear 
hand,  told  him  that  there  was  a  broad  foundation  of 
truth  in  the  tale. 

"Defend  yourself,  Totty,"  he  said  as  quietly  as  he 
could.  "Tell  him  that  this  story  is  absurd.  I  think 
Mr.  Craik  is  not  well " 


376  THE   THREE    FATES. 

"Not  well,  young  111:111'.'"  Craik  asked,  looking  up  at 
him  with  a  bitter  laugh.  "  I  am  as  well  as  you.  Here 
is  my  will.  There  is  the  cabinet.  And  there  is  Char 
lotte  Sherrington  Triimn.  Send  for  her  husband.  .\>k 
liim  it  it  is  not  a  good  case  for  a  jury.  You  may  be  in 
love  with  tin-  girl,  and  she  may  he  in  love  with  you,  for 
all  I  know.  l.ut  yon  have  been  made  to  fall  in  love 
with  each  other  by  that  scheming  old  woman,  there. 
Tin-  only  way  she  could  get  th«-  money  into  tin-  family 
was  thmu^h  you.  Slie  is  lawyer  enough  to  know  that 
there  may  be  a  duplicate  somewhere,  and  that  I  should 
make  one  fast  enough  if  there  were  not.  llesides,  to  burn 
a  will  means  tin-  State's  Prison,  and  she  wants  to  avoid 
that  place,  if  she  can." 

Tin-  posrsibility  and  the  probability  that  the  whole 
story  might  be  true,  flashed  suddenly  upon  George's 
mind,  and  he  turned  very  pale.  The  recollection  of 
Totty's  amazing  desire  to  please  him  was  still  fresh  in 
his  mind,  and  he  remembered  how  very  unexpected  it 
had  all  seemed,  the  standing  invitation  to  the  house,  the 
extreme  anxiety  to  draw  him  to  the  count  r\ .  the  reckless 
way  in  which  Totty  had  left  him  alone  with  her  daughter, 
Totty's  manner  on  that  night  when  she  had  persuaded 
him  to  offer  himself  to  Mamie  —  the  result,  and  the 
cal»le  message  sin-  had  shown  him.  ready  prepared,  and 
taking  for  granted  her  husband's  consent.  |?y  this 
time  Totty  had  sunk  into  a  chair  and  was  sobbing  help 
lessly,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands  and  handker 
chief.  George  walked  up  to  her,  while  old  Tom  Craik 
kept  .it  his  elbow,  as  though  tearing  that  he  lui^ht 
prove  ton  easily  t'o r-h  ing. 

"How  lon-4  have  you  known  the  contents  of  that  will?" 
George  a^ked  steadily,  and  Mill  trying  to  speak  kindly. 

••Since— the  end  —  .it  April."  T..tty  s.,!,],,.,!.  She 
felt  it  impossible  to  lie,  for  her  brother'-.  ,.Ve>  were  fixed 
on  her  face  and  *he  was  frightem-d. 

"You  did.  di.l  you?  Well,  well,  that  ought  to  settle 
it."  said  Craik.  breaking  int..  a  savage  laugh.  "I  fancy 


THE   THREE   FATES.  377 

it  must  have  been  about  that  time  that  she  began  to  like 
you  so  much,"  he  added  looking  at  George. 

"About  the  first  of  May,"  George  answered  coldly. 
"  I  remember  that  on  that  day  I  met  you  in  the  street 
and  you  begged  me  to  go  and  see  Mamie,  who  was  alone." 

"  I  like  men  who  remember  dates, "  chuckled  the  old 
man  at  his  elbow. 

"I  have  been  very  much  deceived,"  said  George.  "I 
believed  it  was  for  myself.  It  was  for  money.  I  have 
nothing  more  to  say." 

"You  have  not  asked  me  whether  I  knew  anything," 
said  Mamie,  coming  before  him.  Her  alabaster  skin 
was  deadly  white  and  her  grey  eyes  were  on  fire. 

"  Your  mother  knows  you  too  well  to  have  told  you, " 
George  answered  very  kindly.  "  I  have  promised  to 
marry  you.  I  do  not  suspect  you,  but  I  would  not 
break  my  word  to  you,  even  if  I  thought  that  you  had 
known." 

"  It  is  for  me  to  break  my  word, "  answered  the  young 
girl  proudly.  "  No  power  on  earth  shall  make  me  marry 
you,  now." 

Her  lips  were  tightly  pressed  to  her  teeth  as  she 
spoke  and  she  held  her  head  high,  though  her  eyes  rested 
lovingly  on  his  face. 

"Why  will  you  not  marry  me,  Mamie?"  George 
asked.  He  knew  now  that  he  had  never  loved  her. 

"I  have  had  shame  already,"  she  answered.  "Shame 
in  being  thrust  upon  you,  shame  in  having  thrust  myself 
upon  you  —  though  not  for  your  money.  You  never 
knew.  You  asked  me  once  how  I  knew  your  moods, 
and  when  you  wanted  me  and  when  you  would  choose  to 
be  alone.  Ask  her,  ask  my  mother.  She  is  wiser  than 
I.  She  could  tell  from  your  face,  long  before  I  could, 
what  you  wished  —  and  we  had  signals  and  signs  and 
passwords,  she  and  I,  so  that  she  could  help  me  with 
her  advice,  and  teach  me  how  to  make  myself  wanted 
by  the  man  I  loved.  Am  I  not  contemptible?  And 
when  I  told  you  that  I  loved  you  —  and  then  made  you 


378  THE    THIIF.F    FATES. 

believe  that  I  was  only  acting,  l>eeause  there  was  no 
response —  shame'.'  I  have  lived  with  it.  fed  on  it. 
dreamed  of  it,  and  to-day  is  the  crown  of  all— -my 
crown  of  shame.  Marry  yon?  T  would  rather  die!  " 

"Whatever  others  may  have  done,  yon  have  always 
been  brave  and  true,  Mamie."  said  George.  u  It  ma\ 
be  better  that  we  should  not  marry,  but  there  has  been 
no  shame  for  you  in  this  matter." 

"I  am  not  so  suiv."  said  Tom  Craik  with  a  chuckle 
and  an  ugly  smile.  ••  She  is  cleverer  than  she  looks 

GtoorgC  turned  upon  the  old  man  with  the  utmost 
violence. 

"Sir!"  lie  eried  savagely.  "If  you  say  that  again  I 
will  break  your  miserable  old  bones,  if  I  hang  for  it!" 

"Like  that  fellow,"  muttered  Craik  with  a  more 
pleasant  expression  than  he  had  yet  worn.  "  Like  him 
more  and  more." 

"I  do  not  want  to  be  liked  by  you,  and  you  know 
why,"  (ieoru''1  answered,  for  he  had  eaiight  the  words. 

"Oh,  you  don't,  don't  you1.'  Well.  well.  Xever 
mind." 

"  Xo  I  do  not.  And  what  is  more,  I  will  tell  you 
>omething.  Mr.  Craik.  When  you  were  ill  and  I  called 
to  inquire.  I  came  because  I  hoped  to  learn  that  you 
were  dead.  That  may  explain  what  I  feel  for  you.  I 
have  not  had  a  favourable  op]. ort unity  of  explaining  the 
matter  before,  or  I  would  have  done  so." 

"Good  again!"  replied  the  old  gentleman.  "  Like 
I  rankings  in  young  people.  Kb.  Totty1.'  Kh,  Mamie? 
Very  frank  young  man,  this,  eh'.'" 

"Furthermore.  Mr.  Craik."  continued  George,  not 
heeding  him,  "  I  will  tell  you  that  I  will  not  lift  a  finger 
to  have  your  money.  I  do  not  want  it." 

"Exactly.  Never  enjoyed  such  .sport,  in  my  life  as 
trying  to  force  money  on  a  poor  man  who  won't  take  it. 
Qood  that,  what1.'  Kh.  TottyV  I>«m't  JOB  think  this  is 
fun1.'  Poor..ld  Totu  —all  broken  up!  Bear  these  little 
tilings  better  myself." 


THE    THREE   FATES.  379 

Totty  was  in  a  fit  of  hysterics  and  neither  heard  nor 
heeded,  as  she  lay  in  the  deep  chair,  sobbing,  moaning 
and  laughing  all  at  once.  George  eyed  her  contemptu 
ously. 

"Either  let  us  go,"  he  said  to  Craik,  "and,  if  you 
have  exhausted  your  wit,  that  would  be  the  best  thing; 
or  else  let  Mrs.  Trimm  be  taken  away.  I  shall  not 
leave  you  here  to  torment  these  ladies." 

"Seat  in  my  carriage?  Come  along!"  answered  Mr. 
Craik  with  alacrity. 

George  led  Mamie  back  into  the  little  room  beyond. 
As  they  went,  he  could  hear  the  old  man  beginning  to 
rail  at  his  sister  again,  but  he  paid  no  attention.  He 
felt  that  he  could  not  leave  Mamie  without  another  word. 
The  young  girl  followed  him  in  silence.  They  stood 
together  near  the  window,  as  far  out  of  hearing  as  pos 
sible.  George  hesitated. 

"What  is  it,  George?"  asked  Mamie.  "Do  you  want 
to  say  good-bye  to  me?  "  She  spoke  with  evident  effort. 

"I  want  to  say  this,  dear.  If  you  and  I  can  help  it, 
not  a  word  of  what  has  happened. to-day  must  ever  be 
known.  I  have  been  deceived,  most  shamefully,  but 
not  by  you.  You  have  been  honest  and  true  from  first 
to  last.  The  best  way  to  keep  this  secret,  is  for  us  two 
to  marry  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  Nobody 
would  believe  it  then.  I  am  afraid  that  Mr.  Craik  will 
tell  some  one,  because  he  is  so  angry." 

"I  have  told  you  my  decision,"  Mamie  answered 
firmly,  though  her  lips  were  white.  "I  have  nothing 
more  to  say." 

"  Think  well  of  what  you  are  doing.  One  should  not 
come  to  such  decisions  when  one  is  angry.  Here  I  am, 
Mamie.  Take  me  if  you  will,  and  forget  that  all  those 
things  have  been  said  and  done." 

For  one  moment,  Mamie  hesitated. 

"Do  you  love  me?"  she  asked,  trying  to  read  his 
heart  in  his  eyes. 

But  the  poor  passion  that  had  taken  the  place  of  love 


3flO  THE   THREE    FATI  - 

was  gone.  The  knowledge  that  he  had  been  played  with 
and  gambled  for,  though  m»t  by  the  girl  herself,  had 
given  him  a  rude  shock. 

"Yei,"  In-  ilWWered,  bravely  trying  to  feel  that  he 
was  speaking  the  truth.  I'.iit  there  was  no  life  in  tin- 
word. 

"No,  dear.1' said  Mamie  simply.  "You  never  loved 
me.  1  see  it  now." 

He  would  have  made  some  sort  of  protest.     Hut  she 
drew  back  from  him.  and  from  his  outstretched  hand. 
Will  you  let  me  be  alone?''  she  asked. 

He  bowed  his  head  and  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

When  George  had  seen  old  Tom  Craik  enter  his  car 
riage  and  drive  away  from  the  house,  he  breathed  more 
freely.  He  could  not  think  very  connectedly  of  what 
had  happened,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  old  man 
had  played  a  part  quite  as  contemptible  as  that  which 
Tntty  herself  had  sustained  so  long.  He  would  assuredly 
not  have  believed  that  the  terrific  anger  of  which  he  had 
witne.s>ed  the  explosion  was  chiefly  due  to  the  discovery 
of  what  was  intended  to  he  a  good  action.  Craik  had 
never  liked  to  l»e  found  out.  and  it  was  especially  gall 
ing  to  him  to  be  exposed  in  the  act  of  endeavouring  to 
make  amends  for  the  past.  I'.ut  for  this  consideration, 
he  would  have  Keen  quite  capable  of  returning  the  will 
to  its  plaee  iii  the  cabinet,  and  of  leaving  the  house 
quietly.  He  would  have  merely  sent  for  a  lawyer  and 

repeated    tile    document    with   a    liew   date,    to    deposit    it    111 

^ome  place  to  which  his  Mster  could  not  possiblv  gain 
acces.s.  I'.ut  his  anger  had  been  aroused  in  the  first 
moment  by  the  certainty  that  Totty  had  understood  his 
motives  and  nmM  secretly  despise  him  for  making  such 


THE   THREE   FATES.  381 

a  restitution  of  ill-gotten  gain.  George  could  not  have 
comprehended  this,  and  he  feared  that  the  old  man 
should  do  some  irreparable  harm  if  he  were  left  any 
longer  with  the  object  of  his  wrath.  The  look  in  Craik's 
eyes  had  not  been  reassuring,  and  it  was  by  no  means 
sure  that  the  whole  affair  had  not  finally  unsettled  his 
intellect. 

There  was  little  ground  for  any  such  fear,  however, 
as  George  would  have  realised  if  he  could  have  followed 
Mr.  Craik  to  his  home,  and  seen  how  soon  he  repented 
of  having  endangered  his  health  by  giving  way  to  his 
wrath.  An  hour  later  he  was  in  bed  and  his  favourite 
doctor  was  at  his  side,  watching  every  pulsation  of  his 
heart  and  prepared  to  do  battle  at  the  first  attack  of  any 
malady  which  should  present  itself. 

George  himself  was  far  less  moved  by  what  had 
occurred  than  he  would  have  believed  possible.  His 
first  and  chief  sensation  was  a  sickening  disgust  with 
Totty  and  with  all  that  recent  portion  of  his  life  in 
which  she  had  played  so  great  a  part.  He  had  been 
deceived  and  played  writh  on  all  sides  and  his  vanity 
revolted  at  the  thought  of  what  might  have  been  if 
Craik's  discovery  had  not  broken  through  the  veil  of 
Totty 's  duplicity.  It  made  him  sick  to  feel  that  while 
he  had  fancied  himself  courted  and  honoured  and  chosen 
as  a  son-in-law  for  his  own  sake  and  for  the  sake  of  what 
he  had  done  in  the  face  of  such  odds,  he  had  really  been 
looked  upon  as  an  object  of  speculation,  as  a  thing  worth 
buying  at  a  cheap  price  for  the  sake  of  its  future  value. 
Beyond  this,  he  felt  nothing  but  a  sense  of  relief  at 
having  been  released  from  his  engagement.  He  had 
done  his  best  to  act  honestly,  but  he  had  often  feared 
that  he  was  deceiving  himself  and  others  in  the  effort  to 
do  what  seemed  honourable.  He  did  not  deny,  even 
now,  that  what  he  had  felt  for  Mamie  might  in  good 
time  have  developed  into  a  real  love,  but  he  saw  clearly 
at  last  that  while  his  senses  had  been  charmed  and  his 
intelligence  soothed,  his  heart  had  never  been  touched. 


THE   THREE   FATES. 

Doubts  about  Manila  herself  would  present  themselves, 
though  he  drove  them  resolutely  away.  It  was  natural 
that  he  should  find  it  hard  t<>  realise  in  her  that  which 
lie  had  never  i'elt  during  their  long  intercourse,  and 
while  his  instinct  told  him  that  the  veiling  girl  liad  been 
innocent  of  all  her  inc<ther's  plotting  and  scheming,  he 
said  to  himself  that  she  would  easily  recover  from  her 
disappointment.  If  he  was  troubled  by  any  re-ret  it 
was  rather  that  he  should  not  have  left  her  mother's 
house  as  soon  as  he  had  seen  that  she  was  interest. -d. 
than  that  he  should  have  failed  to  love  her  as  he  had 
tried  to  do.  On  the  other  hand  he  admitted  that  his 
conduct  had  been  excusable,  considering  the  pressure 
which  Totty  had  brought  to  bear  upon  him. 

The  most  unpleasant  point  in  the  future  was  the 
explanation  which  must  inevitably  take  place  between 
himself  and  Sherrington  Trimm.  It  would  be  hard  to 
imagine  a  meeting  more  disagreeable  to  both  parties  as 
this  one  was  sure  to  be.  There  could  be  no  question 
about  Trimm's  innocence  in  the  whole  affair,  for  his 
character  was  too  well  known  to  the  world  to  admit  the 
h-ast  suspicion.  l»ut  it  would  be  a  painful  matter  to 
meet  him  and  talk  over  what  had  happened.  Tf  possi 
ble,  the  interview  must  be  avoided,  and  (Icorge  deter 
mined  to  attempt  this  solution  by  writing  a  letter  setting 
forth  his  position  with  the  utmost  clearness.  He  turned 
up  the  steps  of  a  club  to  which  he  belonged  and  sat 
down  to  the  task. 

What  lie  said  may  be  summed  up  in  a  few  words.  He 
took  it  for  granted  that  Trimm  would  he  acquainted  with 
what  had  occurred,  by  the  time  the  letter  reached  him. 
It  only  remained  for  him  to  repeat  what  he  had  said  to 
Mami'-  herself,  to  wit,  that  if  she  would  marry  him.  he 
was  ready  to  fulfil  his  engagement.  He  concluded  by 
saying  that  he  would  wait  a  month  for  the  definite 
answer,  alter  which  time  he  intended  to  go  abroad.  He 
sealed  the  note  and  took  it  with  him.  intending  to  send 
n  to  Trimm's  house  in  the  evening.  As  luck  would 


THE  THREE   FATES.  383 

have  it,  however,  he  met  Trimm  himself  in  the  hall  of 
the  club.  He  had  stopped  on  his  way  up  town  to  refresh 
himself  with  a  certain  mild  drink  of  his  own  devising. 

"Hilloa,  George!"  he  cried  in  his  cheery  voice. 
"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked  anxiously  as  he  saw 
the  expression  on  the  other's  face. 

"Have  you  been  at  home  yet? "  George  asked. 

"No." 

"  Something  very  disagreeable  has  happened.  I  have 
just  written  you  a  note.  Will  you  take  it  with  you  and 
read  it  after  you  have  heard  what  they  have  to  say?  " 

"  Confound  it  all !  "  exclaimed  Sherry  Trimm.  "  I  am 
not  fond  of  mystery.  Come  into  a  quiet  room  and  tell 
me  all  about  it." 

"I  would  rather  that  you  found  it  out  for  yourself," 
said  George,  drawing  back. 

Sherry  Trimm  looked  keenly  at  him,  and  then  took 
him  by  the  arm. 

"  Look  here,  George, "  he  said,  "  no  nonsense !  I  do  not 
know  what  the  trouble  is,  but  I  see  it  is  serious .  Let 
us  have  it  out,  right  here." 

"Very  well,"  George  answered.  "Your  wife  has 
made  trouble,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  they  were  closeted  in 
one  of  the  small  rooms.  "You  drew  up  Mr.  Craik's 
will,  and  you  kept  his  secret.  When  you  had  gone 
abroad,  your  wife  got  the  will  out  of  the  deed-box  in 
your  office  and  took  it  home  with  her.  She  kept  it  in 
that  Indian  cabinet  and  Mr.  Craik  found  it  there  this 
afternoon,  and  made  a  fearful  scene.  Unfortunately 
your  wife  could  not  find  any  answer  to  what  he  said, 
and  thereupon  Mamie  declared  that  she  would  not  marry 
me." 

Sherrington  Trimm 's  pink  face  had  grown  slowly  livid 
while  George  was  speaking. 

"What  did  Tom  say?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"He  hinted  that  his  sister  had  not  been  wholly  disin 
terested  in  her  kindness  to  me,"  said  George.  "  Unfort 
unately  Mamie  and  I  were  present.  I  did  the  best  I 
could,  but  the  mischief  was  done." 


384  I'M  i.    IHKI.I:   TA  ri:s. 

Sherrington  said  nothing  more,  hut  began  to  walk  up 
and  down  tin-  small  room  nervously,  pulling  at  his  short 
grizzled  moustache  from  time  to  time.  Like  every  one 
else  who  had  been  concerned  in  the  affair,  he  grasped 
the  whole  situation  in  a  moment. 

"This  is  a  miserable  business,"  he  said  at  last  in  a 
tone  that  expn -ssn I  profound  humiliation  and  utter 
disgust. 

(ieorge  did  not  answer,  for  he  was  quite  of  the  same 
opinion.  He  stood  leaning  against  a  card-table,  drum 
ming  with  his  fingers  on  the  green  cloth  behind  him. 
Sherry  Trimm  paused  in  his  walk,  and  struck  his 
clenched  fist  upon  the  palm  of  his  other  hand.  Then  he 
shook  his  head  and  began  to  pace  the  floor  again. 

"An  abominable  business,"  he  muttered.  "I  cannot 
see  that  there  is  anything  to  be  done,  but  to  beg  your 
pardon  for  it  all,"  he  said,  suddenly  turning  to  (Jeorge. 

"You  need  not  do  that,"  George  answered  readily. 
"It  is  not  your  fault,  Cousin  Sherry.  All  I  want  to 
say,  is  what  I  had  already  written  to  you.  It  Mamie 
will  change  her  mind  and  marry  me.  I  am  ready." 

Trimm  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"Yon  are  a  good  fellow,  (leorge,"  he  said.  "But  I 
don't  think  I  could  stand  that.  You  never  loved  her  as 
\oii  ought  to  love  to  be  happy.  I  sa\v  that  long  ago  and 
1  gues.sed  that  there  had  been  something  wrong.  You 
have  been  trieked  into  the  whole  thing —  and  —  just  go 
away  and  leave  me  here,  will  you?  F  cannot  stand  tin-." 

George  took  the  outstretched  hand  and  shook  it  warmh  . 

Then  lie  left  the  room  and  closed  the  d •  behind  him. 

In  that  moment  he  pitied  Sln-rrington  Trimm  far  more 
than  he  pitied  Mamie  herself.  He  could  understand 
the  man's  humiliation  letter  than  the  girl's  broken 
heart.  He  went  out  of  the  dub  and  turned  homewards 
He  had  yet  to  communicate  the  intelligence  to  his 
father,  and  he  was  oddly  curious  to  see  what  the  old 
gentleman  would  say.  An  hour  later  he  had  told  the 
whole  storv  with  everv  detail  lie  could  remember,  from 


THE   THREE    FATES.  385 

the  day  when  Totty  had  told  him  to  go  and  see  Mamie 
to  his  recent  interview  with  Sherry  Trimm. 

"I  am  sorry  for  you,  George,"  said  Jonah  Wood.  "I 
am  very  sorry  for  yon." 

"  I  think,  on  the  whole,  that  is  more  than  I  can  say 
for  myself,"  George  answered.  "I  am  far  more  sorry 
for  Mamie  and  her  father.  It  is  a  relief  to  me.  I  would 
not  have  believed  it,  this  morning." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  were  not  in  love?  " 

"Yes.  I  am  just  as  fond  of  her  as  ever.  There  is 
nothing  I  would  not  do  for  her.  But  T  do  not  want  to 
marry  her  and  I  never  did,  till  that  old  cat  made  me 
think  it  was  my  duty." 

"I  should  think  you  would  have  known  what  your 
duty  was,  without  waiting  to  be  told.  I  would  have 
told  her  mother  that  I  did  not  love  the  girl,  and  I  would 
have  gone  the  next  morning." 

;'  You  are  so  sensible,  father !  "  George  exclaimed.  "  I 
looked  at  it  differently.  It  seemed  to  me  that  if  I  had 
gone  so  far  as  to  make  Mamie  believe  that  I  loved  her, 
I  ought  to  be  able  to  love  her  in  earnest." 

"  When  you  are  older,  you  will  know  better, "  observed 
the  old  gentleman  severely.  "  You  have  too  much  imag 
ination.  As  for  Mr.  Craik,  he  will  not  leave  you  his 
money  now.  I  doubt  if  he  meant  to." 

George  went  and  shut  himself  up  in  the  little  room 
which  had  witnessed  so  many  of  his  struggles  and 
disappointments.  He  sat  down  in  his  shabby  old  easy- 
chair  and  lit  a  short  pipe  and  fell  into  a  profound 
reverie.  The  unexpected  had  played  a  great  part  in  his 
life,  and  as  he  reviewed  the  story  of  the  past  three 
years,  he  was  surprised  to  find  how  very  different  his 
own  existence  had  been  from  that  of  the  average  man. 
With  the  exception  of  his  accident  on  the  river  and  the 
scene  he  had  witnessed  to-day,  nothing  really  startling 
had  happened  to  him  in  that  time,  and  yet  his  position 
at  the  present  moment  was  as  different  from  his  position 
three  years  earlier  as  it  possibly  could  be.  In  that  time 


."•>*'•  THE   THREE    FATF.s. 

ho  had  risen  from  total   obscurity   into  the  publicity  of 
reputation,    if  not   of  celebrity.      He    was   not  fond  of 

disturbing  the  mass  of  papers  that  encumbered  his  table. 

ami     there,     deep    do\VU     under    the    rot     were    still    tit    be 

found  rough  drafts  of  his  last  poor  little  reviews.  Hang 
ing  from  one  corner  there  was  visible  the  corrected 
"revise"  of  one  of  hi.s  curliest  accepted  articles.  At 
the  other  end.  beneath  a  piece  of  old  iron  which  he  used 
as  a  paper-weight,  lay  the  manuscript  of  his  first  novel, 
well  thumbed  and  soiled,  and  marked  at  intervals  in 
peneil  with  the  names  of  the  compositors  who  had  set  up 
the  pages  in  type.  There.,  upon  the  table,  lay  the 
accumulated  refuse  of  three  yean  ot  hard  work,  of  the 
three  years  which  had  raised  him  into  the  public  notice. 
Much  of  that  work  had  been  done  under  the  influence  of 
one  woman,  of  one  fair  young  girl  who  had  l>ent  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  read  her  page  after  page,  and  whose  keen, 
fresh  sight  had  often  detected  flaws  and  errors  where  he 
himself  saw  no  imperfection*  She  had  encouraged  him. 
had  pushed  him,  and  urged  him  on.  in  spite  of  himself, 
until  he  had  succeeded,  beyond  his  \vihlot  expectations. 
Then  he  had  lost,  her.  because  he  had  thought  that  she 
was  bound  to  marry  him.  He  did  not  think  so  now.  for 
he  felt  that  in  that  case,  too,  he  had  been  mistaken,  as 
in  the  more  recent  one  he  had  deceived  himself.  He  had 
ne\cr  been  in  love.  He  had  never  felt  what  he  described 
in  hi>  own  books.  His  blood  had  never  raced  through 
hi>  veins  for  love,  as  it  had  often  done  for  anger  and 
>ometimes  tor  mere  passing  passion.  Love  had  never 
taken  him  and  mastered  him  and  carried  him  away  in  its 
arms  beyond  all  consideration  for  consequences.  It  was 
not  because  lie  was  strong.  He  knew  that  whatever 
people  might  think  of  him.  he  had  often  been  weak,  and 
had  hinged  to  be  made  strong  by  a  love  he  could  not 
feel.  He  had  been  ready  to  yield  himself  to  a  belief  in 
affections  which  had  proved  unreal  and  which  had  dis 
appointed  himself  by  their  inMahility  and  by  the  6806 
which  he  had  recovered  from  them.  Kven  in  the 


THE   THREE   FATES.  387 

solitude  of  his  own  room  he  was  ashamed  to  own  to  his 
inner  consciousness  how  little  he  had  been  moved  by 
all  that  had  happened  to  him  in  those  three  years. 

He  thought  of  Johnson,  the  pale-faced  hard-working 
man,  whose  heart  was  full  of  unsatisfied  ambition  and 
who  had  distanced  his  competitors  by  sheer  energy  and 
enthusiasm.  He  envied  the  man  his  belief  in  himself 
and  his  certainty  of  slow  but  sure  success.  Slow,  indeed, 
it  must  be.  Johnson  had  toiled  for  many  years  at  his 
writing  to  attain  the  position  he  occupied,  to  be  consid 
ered  a  good  judge  and  a  ready  writer  by  the  few  who 
knew  him,  to  gain  a  small  but  solid  reputation  in  a  small 
circle.  He  had  worked  much  harder  than  George  him 
self,  and  yet  to-day,  George  Wood  was  known  and  read 
where  William  Johnson  had  never  been  heard  of.  Of 
the  two  Johnson  was  by  far  the  better  satisfied  with  his 
success,  though  of  the  two  he  possessed  by  very  much 
the  more  ambition,  in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of  the 
word. 

Then  George  thought  of  Thomas  Craik,  and  of  his 
sneer  at  ambitious  men.  He  had  said  that  there  was  no 
pleasure  in  possession,  but  only  in  getting,  getting,  get 
ting,  as  long  as  a  man  had  breath ;  that  the  wish  to  excel 
other  men  in  anything  was  a  drawback  and  a  disadvan 
tage,  and  that  nothing  in  the  world  was  worth  having 
for  its  own  sake,  from  money  to  fame,  through  all  the 
catalogue  of  what  is  attainable  by  humanity.  And  yet, 
Thomas  Craik  was  an  instance  of  a  very  successful  man, 
who  had  some  right  to  speak  on  the  subject.  Whether 
he  had  got  his  money  by  fair  means  or  foul  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  argument.  He  had  it,  and  he  could  speak 
from  experience  about  the  pleasures  of  possession. 
There  must  be  some  truth  in  what  he  said.  George 
himself  had  attained  before  the  age  of  thirty  what  many 
men  labour  in  vain  to  reach  throughout  a  lifetime.  The 
case  was  similar.  Whether  he  had  deserved  the  reputa 
tion  he  had  so  suddenly  acquired  or  not,  mattered  little. 
Many  critics  said  that  he  had  no  claim  to  it.  Many 


888  THE   THI:t  I      t    v  TES. 

others  ^aid  that  he  deser\ ed  more  than  he  got.  Which 
ever  side  was  right,  he  had  it,  as  Tom  Craik  had  his 
money.  Did  it  give  him  any  sat i>tarti«>n?  None  what 
ever,  beyond  the  material  advantages  it  brought  him, 
and  which  only  pleased  him  because  they  made  him 
independent  tit'  his  father's  help.  When  he  thought  of 
\vliat  In-  liad  done,  lit-  found  im  savour  of  pride  in  the 
reflection,  nothing  which  really  flattered  hi*  vanity, 
nothing  to  send  a  thrill  of  happiness  through  him.  He 
fflM  .-old.  indifferent  to  all  he  had  done.  It  would  not 
have  entered  his  mind  to  take  up  one  <>t  his  own  books 
and  glance  over  the  pa^cs.  On  the  contrary,  he  felt  a 
strung  repulsion  Inr  what  he  had  written,  the  moment  it 
wa-s  finished.  He  admitted  that  he  was  foolish  in  this, 
as  in  many  other  things,  and  that  he  would  in  all  like 
lihood  improve  his  work  by  going  over  it  and  polishing 
it.  even  by  entirely  rewriting  a  great  part  of  it.  He 
was  not  deterred  from  doing  so  1>\  indolence,  for  his 
rarely  energetic  temperament  loved  hard  work  and 
sought  it.  It  was  rather  a  profound  dissatisfaction  with 
all  he  did  which  prevented  him  from  expending  any 
further  time  upon  each  performance  when  he  had  once 
reached  the  last  page.  N'othing  >atisti«-d  him.  neither 
what  he  did  himself,  nor  what  he  saw  done  by  others. 

Thinking  tin-  matter  over  in  his  solitude  the  inevitable 
conclusion  seemed  to  !»«•  that  he  was  one  of  those  discou- 
t.-nti-d  beings  who  can  never  be  pleased  with  anything, 
nor  h»e  themselves  in  an  enthusiasm  without  picking 
to  pieces  the  object  that  has  made  him  enthusiastic.  Hut 
this  was  not  true  either.  There  were  plent\  of  great 
works  in  the  world  for  which  he  had  no  criticism,  and 
which  never  failed  to  excite  his  boundless  admiration. 
He  smiled  to  himself  as  he  thought  that  what  would 
really  please  him  would  be  to  be  forced  into  the  same 
attitude  of  rexpi-.-t  before  one  of  his  o\\  n  books 
which  he  nat ui-ally  fell  before  the  great  masterpi 
literature.  He  would  have  been  hard  to  ^Mt 
thought,  if  that  would  not  have  -ati>fied  hi 


THE  THREE   FATES.  389 

that,  then,  the  vision  which  he  was  really  pursuing?  It 
was  folly  to  suppose  that  he  would  be  so  mad,  and  yet, 
at  that  time,  he  felt  that  he  desired  nothing  else  and 
nothing  less  than  that,  and  since  that  was  absolutely 
unattainable,  he  was  condemned  to  perpetual  discontent, 
to  be  borne  with  the  best  patience  he  could  find.  Beyond 
this,  he  could  find  no  explanation  of  his  feelings  about 
his  own  work. 

The  only  other  source  of  happiness  of  which  he  could 
conceive  was  love,  and  this  brought  him  back  to  his 
kindly  and  grateful  memories  of  Constance  Fearing,  and 
to  the  more  disturbing  recollection  of  his  cousin.  The 
latter,  also,  had  played  a  part  and  had  occupied  a  share 
in  his  life.  He  had  watched  her  more  closely  than  he 
had  ever  watched  any  one,  and  had  studied  her  with  an 
unconsciously  unswerving  attention  which  proved  how 
little  he  had  loved  her  and  how  much  she  had  interested 
him.  He  was,  indeed,  never  well  aware  that  he  was 
subjecting  any  one  to  a  microscopic  intellectual  scrutiny, 
for  he  possessed  in  a  high  degree  the  faculty  of  uninten 
tional  memory.  While  it  cost  him  a  severe  effort  to 
commit  to  memory  a  dozen  verses  of  any  poet,  old  or 
modern,  he  could  nevertheless  recall  with  faultless  accu 
racy  both  sights  and  conversations  which  he  had  seen  and 
heard,  even  after  an  interval  of  many  years,  provided 
that  his  interest  had  been  somewhat  excited  at  the  time. 
The  half-active,  half-indolent,  wholly  luxurious  life  at 
his  cousin's  house  had  in  the  end  produced  a  strong 
impression  upon  him.  It  had  been  like  an  interval  of 
lotus-eating  upon  an  almost  uninhabited  island,  varied 
only  by  such  work  as  he  chose  to  do  at  his  own  leisure 
and  in  his  own  way.  During  more  than  four  months 
the  struggles  of  the  world  had  been  hidden  from  him, 
and  had  temporarily  ceased  to  play  any  part  in  his 
thoughts.  The  dreamy  existence  spent  between  flowers 
and  woods  and  water,  where  every  want  had  been  antici 
pated  almost  before  it  was  felt,  served  now  as  a  back 
ground  for  the  picture  of  the  young  girl  who  had  been 


390  THE    TMKKK    KATES. 

SO  constantly  with  him.  herself  :is  natural  as  her  sur 
roundings,  tin-  incarnation  of  life  and  of  life's  eharm,  the 
negation  of  intellectual  activity  and  of  the  sufferings  of 
thought,  a  lovely  creature  who  could  only  think,  reason, 
enjoy  and  suffer  with  her  heart,  and  whose  mind  could 
acquire  but  little,  and  was  incapable  of  giving  out.  Sin- 
had  been  the  central  figure  and  had  cont  ributed  much  to 
the  general  effect,  so  much,  indeed,  that  under  pressure 
of  circumstances  he  had  l>een  willing  to  believe  that  lie 
could  love  her  enough  to  marry  her.  The  scene  had 
changed,  the  hallucination  had  vanished  and  the  delu 
sion  was  destroyed,  but  the  memory  of  it  all  remained, 
and  now  disturbed  his  recollection  of  more  recent  events. 
There  was  a  sensuous  attraction  in  the  pictures  that 
presented  themselves,  from  which  he  could  not  escape, 
but  which  he  for  some  reason  despised  and  tried  to  put 
away  from  him,  by  thinking  again  of  Constance,  of  the 
cold  purity  of  her  face,  of  her  over-studied  conscien 
tiousness  and  of  her  complete  subjection  to  her  sincere 
but  mistaken  self-criticism. 

He  wondered  whether  he  should  ever  marrv.  and  what 
manner  of  woman  his  wife  would  turn  out  to  be.  <M 
one  thing  he  was  sure.  He  would  not  now  many  any 
woman  unless  he  loved  her  with  all  his  heart,  "and  he 
would  not  ask  her  to  marry  him  unless  he  were  already 
Mire  of  her  love.  The  third  must  be  the  decisive  case. 
from  which  he  should  never  desire  to  withdraw  and  in 
which  there  should  be  no  disappointment.  He  thought 
ot  (Jrace  Feftring,  and  of  her  marriage  and  short-lived 
happiness  with  its  terribly  sudden  ending  and  the 
immensity  of  .sorrow  that  had  followed  its  extinction. 
It  almost  sremi-d  to  him  a s  though  it  would  be  worth 
while  to  sutler  as  -die  suffered  if  one  could  have  what  she 
had  found;  tor  the  love  must  have  been  great  and  dee], 
and  Sincere  indeed,  which  could  leave  such  BOftlfl  where 
it  had  rested.  To  love  a  woman  so  well  able  to  love 
would  be  happiness.  She  never  doubted  herself  nor 
what  she  frit:  all  her  thoughts  wen-  clear,  simple  and 


THE   THREE    FATES.  391 

strong;  she  did  not  analyse  herself  to  know  the  measure 
of  her  own  sincerity,  nor  was  she  a  woman  to  be  carried 
away  by  a  thoughtless  passion.  She  loved  and  she  hated 
frankly,  sincerely,  without  a  side  thought  of  doubt  on 
the  one  hand  nor  of  malice  on  the  other.  She  was 
morally  strong  without  putting  on  any  affectation  of 
strength,  she  was  clear-sighted  without  making  any 
pretence  to  exceptional  intelligence,  she  was  passionate 
without  folly,  and  wise  without  annoyance,  she  was  good, 
not  sanctimonious,  she  was  dignified  without  vanity.  In 
short,  as  George  thought  of  her,  he  saw  that  the  woman 
who  had  openly  disliked  him  and  opposed  him  in  former 
days,  was  of  all  the  three  the  one  for  whom  he  felt  the 
most  sincere  admiration.  He  remembered  now  that,  at 
his  first  meeting  with  the  two  sisters  he  had  liked  Grace 
better  than  Constance,  and  would  then  have  chosen  her 
as  the  object  of  his  attentions  had  she  been  free  and 
had  he  foreseen  that  friendship  was  to  follow  upon 
intimacy  and  love  on  friendship.  Unfortunately  for 
George  Wood,  and  for  all  who  find  themselves  in  a  like 
situation,  that  concatenation  of  events  is  the  one  most 
rarely  foreseen  by  anybody,  and  George  was  fain  to 
content  himself  with  speculating  upon  the  nature  of  the 
happiness  he  would  have  enjoyed  had  he  been  loved  by 
a  woman  who  seemed  now  to  be  dead  to  the  whole  world 
of  the  affections.  It  was  sufficient  to  compare  her  with 
her  sister  to  understand  that  she  was,  of  the  two,  the 
nobler  character;  it  was  enough  to  think  of  Mamie  to 
see  that  in  that  direction  no  comparison  was  even  pos 
sible. 

"  It  would  be  strange  if  it  should  be  my  fate  to  love 
her,  after  all, "  George  thought.  "  She  would  never  love 
me." 

He  roused  himself  from  his  reverie  and  sat  down  to 
his  table,  by  sheer  force  of  habit.  Paper  and  ink  were 
before  him,  and  his  pen  lay  ready  to  his  hand,  where  he 
had  last  thrown  it  down.  Almost  unconsciously  he 
be^an  to  write,  putting  down  notes  of  a  situation  that 


392  THE    THREE    FATES. 

had  suddenly  presented  it  self  to  his  mind.  The  pen 
moved  along,  sometimes  running  rapidly,  KM&etillLBfl 
stopping  with  an  impatient  hesitation  during  which  it 
continued  to  move  uneasily  in  the  air.  Characters 
shaped  themselves  out  of  the  chaos  ;md  names  sounded 
in  the  willing  ear  of  the  writer.  The  situation  which 
he  had  first  thought  of  was  all  at  once  transformed  into 
a  detail  in  a  s«-c«md  and  larger  act  ion.  another  possibility 
Marted  up  out  of  darkness,  in  brilliant  clearness,  and 
absorbed  the  matters  already  thought  of  into  itself, 
broadening  and  strengthening  every  moment.  AVlioh- 
chapters  now  stood  out  as  if  already  written,  and  in  their 
places.  A  detail  here,  another  there,  to  be  changed  OF 
adapted,  one  glance  at  the  whole,  one  or  two  names 
spoken  aloud  to  see  how  they  sounded  in  the  stillne--. 
a  pause  of  a  moment,  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper,  and  George 
Wood  was  launched  upon  the  first  chapter  of  a  new 
novel,  forgetful  of  Grace,  of  Constance  Fearing  and  even 
of  poor  Mamie  herself  and  of  all  that  had  happened  only 
two  or  three  hours  earlier. 

He  was  writing,  working  with  passionate  and  all- 
absorbing  inteivst  at  the  expression  of  his  fail' 
What  he  did  was  good,  well  thought,  clearly  expivssed. 
harmoniously  composed.  When  it  was  given  to  the 
public  it  was  spoken  of  as  the  work  of  a  man  of  heart, 
full  of  human  sympathy  and  understanding.  At  the 
time  when  he  was  inventing  the  plot  and  writing  down 
the  beginning  of  his  story,  a  number  of  people  intimately 
•  •onnected  with  his  life  wen-  all  in  one  way  or  another 
Buffering  acutely  and  he  him-rlf  wa^  the  direct  or  indi 
rect  cause  of  all  their  sufferings.  He  was  neither  a  cruel 
man,  nor  thoughtless  nor  unkind,  but  he  was  for  tin- 
time  utterly  uncon.scious  of  tl uter  world,  and  if  not 

happy  at  least  profoundly  interested  in  what  he  was 
doing. 

Ihiringthat  hour.  Sherrington  Trimm,  pale  and  ner 
vous,  was  walking  up  and  down  his  endless  beat  in  the 
little  room  at  the  club  when-  C.-orge  had  left  him.  try- 


THE   THREE   FATES.  393 

ing  to  master  his  anger  and  disgust  before  going  home 
to  meet  his  wife  and  the  inevitable  explanation  which 
must  ensue.  The  servant  came  in  and  lit  the  gaslight 
and  stirred  the  fire  but  Trimm  never  saw  him  nor  varied 
the  monotony  of  his  walk. 

At  his  own  house,  things  were  no  better.  Totty,  com 
pletely  broken  down,  by  the  failure  of  all  her  plans  and 
the  disclosure  of  her  discreditable  secret,  had  recovered 
enough  from  her  hysterics  to  be  put  to  bed  by  her  faith 
ful  maid,  who  was  surprised  to  find  that,  as  all  signs  fail 
in  fair  weather,  none  of  the  usual  remedies  could  extract 
a  word  of  satisfaction  or  an  expression  of  relief  from 
her  mistress.  Down  stairs,  in  the  little  boudoir  where 
she  had  last  seen  the  man  she  loved,  Mamie  was  lying 
stretched  upon  the  divan,  dry  eyed,  with  strained  lips 
and  blanched  cheeks,  knowing  nothing  save  that  her 
passion  had  dashed  itself  to  pieces  against  a  rock  in  the 
midst  of  its  fairest  voyage. 

In  another  house,  far  distant,  Grace  Bond  was  leaning 
against  a  broad  chimney-piece,  a  half-sorrowful,  half- 
contemptuous  smile  upon  her  strong  sad  face,  as  she 
thought  of  all  her  sister's  changes  and  vacillations  and 
of  the  aimlessness  of  the  fair  young  life.  Above,  in  her 
own  room,  Constance  Fearing  was  kneeling  and  praying 
with  all  her  might,  though  she  hardly  knew  for  what, 
while  the  bright  tears  flowed  down  her  thin  cheeks  in  an 
unceasing  stream. 

"  And  yet,  when  he  came  to  life,  he  called  me  first !  " 
she  cried,  stretching  out  her  hands  and  looking  upward 
as  though  protesting  against  the  injustice  of  Heaven. 

And  in  yet  another  place,  in  a  magnificent  chamber, 
where  the  softened  light  played  upon  rich  carvings  and 
soft  carpets,  an  old  man  lay  dying  of  his  last  fit  of  anger. 

All  for  the  sake  of  George  Wood  who,  conscious  that 
many  if  not  all  were  in  deep  trouble,  anxiety  or  suffer 
ing,  was  driving  his  pen  unceasingly  from  one  side  of  a 
piece  of  paper  to  the  other,  with  an  expression  of  keen 
interest  on  his  dark  face,  and  a  look  of  eager  delight  in 


394  THE    THREE    FATES. 

his  eyes  such  as  a  man  may  show  who  is  hunting  an 
animal  of  value  and  who  is  on  the  point  of  overtaking 
his  prey. 

I'.ut  for  the  accident  of  thought  which  had  thrown  a 
new  idea  into  the  circulation  of  his  brain,  lie  would  still 
have  been  sitting  in  his  shabby  easy-chair,  thoughtfully 
pulling  at  his  short  pipe  and  thinking  of  all  those  per 
sons  whom  he  had  seen  that  day,  kindly  of  some,  unkindly 
of  others,  but  not  deaf  to  all  memories  and  shut  off  from 
all  sympathy  by  something  which  had  suddenly  arisen 
between  himself  and  the  waking,  suffering  world. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

The  sun  shines  alike  upon  the  just  and  the  unjust,  and 
it  would  seem  to  follow  that  all  men  should  be  judged 
by  the  same  measure  in  the  more  important  actions  and 
emotions  of  their  lives.  To  apply  the  principle  of  a 
double  standard  to  mankind  is  to  run  the  risk  of  produc 
ing  some  very  curious  results  in  morality.  And  yet. 
there  are  undoubtedly  cases  in  which  a  man  has  a  claim 
to  special  consideration  and.  as  it  were,  to  a  trial  by  a 
.-peeial  jury.  There  have  been  many  great  statesmen 
\vlmse  private  practice  in  regard  to  financial  t  ransact  ions 
has  been  more  than  shady,  and  there  have  been  others 
whose  private  lives  have  been  spotless,  but  whn.se  politi 
cal  doings  have  been  unscrupulous  in  the  extreme.  There 
are  professions  and  careers  in  which  it  is  sufficient  to 
act  precisely  as  all  others  engaged  in  the  same  occupa 
tion  would  act.  and  in  which  the  most  important  element 
of  success  is  a  happy  faculty  of  keeping  the  brain  power 
at  the  same  unvarying  pressure,  neither  high  nor  low, 
but  always  ready  t<»  lie  used,  and  in  such  a  state  that  it 
mav  alwavs  be  relied  upon  to  perform  the  same  amount 
of  work  in  a  given  time.  There  are  other  occupations 


THE   THREE   FATES.  395 

in  which  there  are  necessarily  moments  of  enormous 
activity  at  uncertain  intervals,  followed  by  periods  of 
total  relaxation  and  rest.  One  might  divide  all  careers 
roughly  into  two  classes,  and  call  the  one  the  continuous 
class  and  the  other  the  intermittent.  The  profession  of 
the  novelist  falls  within  the  latter  division.  Very  few 
men  or  women  who  have  written  well  have  succeeded  in 
reducing  the  exercise  of  their  art  to  a  necessary  daily 
function  of  the  body.  Very  few  intellectual  machines 
can  be  made  to  bear  the  strain  of  producing  works  of 
imagination  in  regular  quantities  throughout  many  years 
at  an  unvarying  rate,  day  after  day.  Neither  the  brain 
nor  the  body  will  bear  it,  and  if  the  attempt  be  made 
either  the  one  or  the  other,  or  both,  will  ultimately 
suffer.  Without  being  necessarily  spasmodic,  the  story 
teller's  activity  is  almost  unavoidably  intermittent. 
There  are  men  who  can  take  up  the  pen  and  drive  it 
during  seven,  eight  and  even  nine  hours  a  day  for  six 
weeks  or  two  months  and  who,  having  finished  their 
story,  either  fall  into  a  condition  of  indolent  apathy 
until  the  next  book  has  to  be  written,  or  return  at  once 
to  some  favourite  occupation  which  produces  no  apparent 
result,  and  of  which  the  public  has  never  heard.  There 
are  many  varieties  of  the  genus  author.  There  is  the 
sailor  author,  who  only  comes  ashore  to  write  his  book 
and  puts  to  sea  again  as  soon  as  it  is  in  the  publisher's 
hands.  There  is  the  hunting  author,  who  as  in  the 
case  of  Anthony  Trollope,  keeps  his  body  in  such  condi 
tion  that  he  can  do  a  little  good  work  every  day  of  the 
year,  a  great  and  notable  exception  to  the  rule.  There 
is  the  student  author,  whose  laborious  work  of  exegesis 
will  never  be  heard  of,  but  who  interrupts  it  from  time 
to  time  in  order  to  produce  a  piece  of  brilliant  fiction, 
returning  to  his  Sanscrit  each  time  with  renewed  inter 
est  and  industry.  There  is  the  musical  author,  whose 
preference  would  have  led  him  to  be  a  professional 
musician,  but  who  had  not  quite  enough  talent  for  it.  or 
not  quite  enough  technical  facility  or  whose  musical 


THE    THKI.K    KATES. 

•  •duration  began  a   little   too  late.      There   is  the  advon- 
turous  author,   who  shoots   in    Africa  or  has  a   habit    of 
spending  the    winter   in    eastern    Siberia.      There    is    the 
artistic    ant  hoi',     who    may    he    found    in    out-of-the-way 
to\vns  in  Italy,  patiently  copying  old  picture*,  as  though 
his  life  depended  upon  his  accuracy,  or  sketching  ragged 
boys   and   girls    in   very    ragged   water-colour.      Then-   is 
the  social  author  —  and  he  is  not  always  the  least  suc- 

•  •e»t'ul    in    his    profession  —  who    is    a    favourite    every 
where,  who  can  dance  and  sing  and  act.  and  who  regards 
the  occasional  production  of  a  novel  as  an  episode  in  his 
life.     There  is  the  author  who  prepares  himself  many 
months  beforehand  for  what  he  intends  t«>  do  hy  fre<|iient- 
ing  the  society,  whether  high  or  low,  which  he  wishes  to 
depict,    who  writes   his   hook   in   one   month   of  the    \car 
and  spends  the  other  eleven    in   observing   tin-    manners 
and  customs  of  men  and    women.      Tln-n-    is   the  author 
who  lives  in  solitary  places   and   evolves    his  characters 
out    of    his    inner   consciousness    and    who   occa.Monally 
descends,  manuscript  in  hand,  from  his  inaccessihle  fast- 
DeaaM    :md    ravages   all   the    coasts    of    Covent     (iarden. 
Henrietta  Street    and   the    Strand,    until    he   has   got    his 
price  and  disappears  as  suddenly  as  he  came,  taking  his 
gold  with   him,    no  man  knows   whither.      There   is    tin- 
author  whom  no  man  can  hoast  of  having  ever  seen,  who 
never  answers  a  h-tt.-r.  nor  gives   an    autograph,  nor  lets 
any    one    hut    his    puhlisher    know    where    he    lives,    hut 
whose  three  volumes  appear  punctually  twice  a  year  and 
whose  name  is   familiar  in  many  mouths.      I'nless   he   is 
to  be  found  docrihed  in  an  enc\  dopa-dia  you  will  never 
know  whether  he  is  old   or  young,  hlack   or  grey,  good- 
looking  or  ugly,  straight  or  hunchbacked.       He  is  to  yon 
a  vague,   imaginary    personage,  sun-minded  by  a  pillar  oi 
cloud.      In  reality  he  is  perhaps  a  fat  little  man  of  fifty, 
who  wears    gold-rimmed    .spectacles   and   has  discovered 
that    he    can   only   write    if   he    lives    in   one   particular 
Hungarian    village  with   a    name   that    battles    pronuncia 
tioti.  and  whose  rhi«-f   interest    in   life   lies   in  the  study 


THE   THREE   FATES.  397 

of  socialism  or  the  cholera  microbe.  Then  again,  there 
is  the  fighting  author,  grim,  grey  and  tough  as  a  Toledo 
blade,  who  has  ridden  through  many  a  hard-fought  field 
in  many  lands  and  has  smelled  more  gunpowder  in  his 
time  than  most  great  generals,  out  of  sheer  love  for  the 
stuff.  There  is  also  the  pacific  author,  who  frequents 
peace  congresses  and  makes  speeches  in  favour  of  a 
general  disarming  of  all  nations.  There  are  countless 
species  and  varieties  of  the  genus.  There  is  even  the 
poet  author,  who  writes  thousands  of  execrable  verses  in 
secret  and  produces  exquisite  romances  in  prose  only 
because  he  can  do  nothing  else. 

If  we  admit  that  novels,  on  the  whole,  are  a  good  to 
society  at  large,  as  most  people,  excepting  authors  them 
selves,  are  generally  ready  to  admit,  we  grant  at  the 
same  time  that  they  must  be  produced  by  individuals 
possessing  the  necessary  talents  and  characteristics  of 
intelligence.  And  if  it  is  shown  that  a  majority  of 
these  individuals  do  their  work  in  a  somewhat  erratic 
fashion,  and  behave  somewhat  erratically  while  they  are 
doing  it,  such  defects  must  be  condoned,  at  least,  if  not 
counted  to  them  for  positive  righteousness.  With  many 
of  them  the  appearance  of  a  new  idea  within  the  field  of 
their  mental  vision  is  equivalent  to  a  command  to  write, 
which  they  are  neither  able  nor  anxious  to  resist;  and, 
if  they  are  men  of  talent,  it  is  very  hard  for  them  to 
turn  their  attention  to  anything  else  until  the  idea  is 
expressed  on  paper.  Let  them  not  be  thought  heartless 
or  selfish  if  they  sometimes  seem  to  care  nothing  for 
Avhat  happens  around  them  while  they  are  subject  to  the 
imperious  domination  of  the  new  idea.  They  are  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other.  They  are  simply  unconscious, 
like  a  man  in  a  cataleptic  trance.  The  plainest  language 
conveys  no  meaning  to  their  abstracted  comprehension, 
the  most  startling  sights  produce  no  impression  upon 
their  sense;  they  are  in  another  world,  living  and  talk 
ing  with  unseen  creations  of  their  own  fancy  and  for  the 
time  being  they  are  not  to  be  considered  as  ordinary 


398  I  HI:  THIIKK  WAXES. 

liuinan  beings,  nor  judged  by  tlie  standard  to  which  other 
men  are  subject. 

It  would  not  therefore  be  jnM  to  say  that  during  the 
days  which  followed  the  breaking  off  of  his  engagement 
with  Mamie  Triinm,  George  Wood  was  cruel  or  unfeel 
ing  because  lie  was  wholly  unconscious  of  her  existence 
throughout  the  greater  ]>art  of  each  twenty-four  hours. 
I'.y  a  coincidence  which  he  would  certainly  not  have 
invoked,  a  train  of  thought  had  l>egun  its  course  in  his 
brain  within  an  hour  or  two  of  the  catastrophe,  and  he 
was  powerless  to  stop  himself  in  the  pursuit  of  it  until 
he  had  reached  the  end.  During  nine  whole  days  he 
never  left  the  house,  and  scarcely  went  out  of  his  room 
except  to  eat  his  meals,  which  he  did  in  u  summary  fash 
ion  without  wasting  time  in  superfluous  conversation. 
On  the  morning  of  the  tenth  day  he  knew  that  he  was  at 
the  last  chapter  and  he  sat  down  at  his  table  in  that 
state  of  mind  to  which  a  very  young  author  is  brought 
by  a  week  and  a  half  of  unceasing  fatigue  mid  excite 
ment.  The  room  swam  with  him.  and  he  could  see 
nothing  distinctly  except  hi>  paper,  the  point  of  his  pen. 
and  the  moving  panorama  in  his  brain,  of  which  it  was 
•itial  to  catch  every  detail  before  it  had  passed  into 
the  outer  darkness  from  which  ideas  cannot  he  brought 
back.  His  hand  was  icy  cold,  moist  and  unsteady  and 
his  face  was  pale,  the  eyelids  dark  and  swollen,  and 
the  veins  on  the  temples  di-temled.  He  move,!  his  feet 
nervously  as  he  wrote,  shrugged  hi>  left  shoulder  with 
impatience  at  the  slighted  hesitation  about  the  use  of  a 
word,  and  his  usually  imperturbable  features  t  ran.slat'-d 
into  expression  evr\  thought.  M  rapidly  as  he  could 
put  it  into  words  with  his  pen.  The  house  might  have 
burned  over  his  head,  ami  he  would  have  gone  on  writ 
ing  until  the  paper  under  his  hand  was  on  tire.  No 
ordinary  noise  would  have  reached  his  ears,  conscious 
only  of  the  scratching  of  the  >teel  point  upon  the  smooth 
sheet.  He  could  have  worked  as  well  in  the  din  of  a 
public  room  in  a  hotel,  or  in  the  crowded  hall  of  a  great 


THE   THREE   FATES.  399 

railway  station,  as  in  the  silence  and  solitude  of  his  own 
chamber.  He  had  reached  the  point  of  abstraction  at 
which  nothing  is  of  the  slightest  consequence  to  the 
writer  provided  that  the  ink  will  flow  and  the  paper  will 
not  blot.  Like  a  skilled  swordsman,  he  was  conscious 
only  of  his  enemy's  eye  and  of  the  state  of  the  weapons. 
The  weapons  were  pen,  ink  and  paper,  and  the  eiieni}*- 
was  the  idea  to  be  pursued,  overtaken,  pierced  and 
pinned  down  before  it  could  assume  another  shape,  or 
escape  again  into  chaos.  The  sun  rose  above  the  little 
paved  brick  court  below  his  window,  and  began  to  shine 
into  the  window  itself.  Then  a  storm  came  up  and  the 
sky  turned  suddenly  black,  while  the  wind  whistled 
through  the  yard  with  that  peculiarly  unnatural  sound 
which  it  makes  in  great  cities,  so  different  from  its  sigh 
ing  and  moaning  and  roaring  amongst  trees  and  rocks. 
The  first  snowflakes  were  whirled  against  the  panes  of 
glass  and  slid  down  to  the  frame  in  half-transparent 
patches.  The  wind  sank  again,  and  the  snow  fluttered 
silently  down  like  the  unwinding  of  an  endless  lace 
curtain  from  above.  Then,  the  flakes  were  suddenly 
illuminated  by  a  burst  of  sunshine  and  melted  as  they 
fell  and  turned  to  bright  drops  of  water  in  the  air,  and 
then  vanished  again,  and  the  small  piece  of  sky  above 
the  great  house  on  the  other  side  of  the  yard  was  once 
more  clear  and  blue,  as  a  sapphire  that  has  been  dipped 
in  pure  water.  It  was  afternoon,  and  George  was 
unconscious  of  the  many  changes  of  the  day,  unconscious 
that  he  had  not  eaten  nor  drunk  since  morning,  and  that 
lie  had  even  forgotten  to  smoke.  One  after  another  the 
pages  were  numbered,  filled  and  tossed  aside,  as  he  went 
on,  never  raising  his  head  nor  looking  away  from  his 
work  lest  he  should  lose  something  of  the  play  upon 
which  all  his  faculties  were  inwardly  concentrated,  and 
of  which  it  was  his  business  to  transcribe  every  word, 
and  to  note  every  passing  attitude  and  gesture  of  the 
actors  who  were  performing  for  his  benefit. 

Some  one  knocked  at  the  door,  gently  at  first  and  then 


400  THE  THREE   FATES. 

more  loudly,  Then,  receiving  no  answer.  HIP  person's 
footsteps  could  be  heard  ivt renting  towards  the  landing. 
The  tiring  of  a  cannon  in  the  room  would  hardly  have 
made  George  turn  his  head  at  that  moment,  much  less 
the  rapping  of  a  servant's  knuckles  upon  a  wooden  panel. 
Several  minutes  elapsed,  and  then  heavier  footsteps  were 
heard  again,  and  the  latch  was  turned  and  the  door 
moved  noiselessly  on  its  hinges.  .Jonah  Wood's  iron- 
grey  head  appeared  in  the  opening.  George  had  heard 
nothing  and  during  several  seconds  the  old  gentleman 
watched  him  curiously.  He  had  the  greatest  considera 
tion  for  his  son's  privacy  when  at  work,  though  he  could 
not  readily  understand  the  terribly  disturbing  effect  of 
an  interruption  upon  a  brain  so  much  more  sensitively 
organised  than  his  own.  Now.  however,  the  case  was 
serious,  and  George  must  be  interrupted,  cost  what  it 
illicit.  He  was  evidently  unconscious  that  any  one  was 
in  the  room,  and  his  back  was  turned  as  he  sat.  Jonah 
Wood  resolved  to  be  cautious. 

"QtOrge!"  he  whispered,  rather  hoarsely,  lint  George 
did  not  hear. 

There  was  nothing  to  l»e  done  but  to  cross  the  room 
and  rouse  him.  The  old  man  stepped  as  softly  as  he 
could  upon  the  uncarpeted  wooden  floor,  and  placed 
himself  hetween  the  light  and  the  writer.  George 
looked  up  and  .started  violently,  so  that  his  pen  flew 
into  the  air  and  fell  upon  the  boards.  At  the  same 
lime  he  uttered  a  >hort.  sharp  cry,  neither  an  oath  nor 
exclamation,  but  a  .sound  such  as  a  man  might  make  who 
is  unexpectedly  and  painfully  wounded  in  battle.  Then 
KW  his  lather  and  laughed  nervously. 

"You  frightened  me.  I  did  not  see  you  come  in,"  he 
said  quickly. 

"I  am  sorry."  said  his  lather,  not  understanding  at  all 
how  a  man  usually  calm  and  courageous  could  be  SO 
easily  startled.  "  It  is  rather  important,  or  I  would  not 
interrupt  you.  Mr.  Sherrington  Trimni  is  down  stairs.'* 

"What  does  he   want?"   George  asked  vaguely   and 


THE  THREE   FATES.  401 

looking  as  though  he  had  forgotten  who   Sherrington 
Trimm  was. 

"He  wants  you,  my  boy.  You  must  go  down  at  once. 
It  is  very  important.  Tom  Craik  was  buried  yesterday." 

u Buried!"  exclaimed  George.  "I  did  not  know  he 
was  dead." 

"  I  understand  that  he  died  several  days  ago,  in  con 
sequence  of  that  fit  of  anger  he  had.  You  remember? 
What  is  the  matter  with  you,  George?  " 

"Cannot  you  see  what  is  the  matter?"  George  cried 
a  little  impatiently.  "I  am  just  finishing  my  book. 
What  if  the  old  fellow  is  dead?  He  has  had  plenty  of 
leisure  to  change  his  will  —  in  all  this  time.  What  does 
Sherry  want?" 

"  He  did  not  change  his  will,  and  Mr.  Trimm  wants 
to  read  it  to  you.  George,  you  do  not  seem  to  realise 
that  you  are  a  very  rich  man,  a  very,  very  rich  man," 
repeated  Jonah  Wood  with  weighty  emphasis. 

"  It  will  do  quite  as  well  if  he  reads  the  confounded 
thing  to  you,"  said  George,  picking  up  his  pen  from  the 
floor  beside  him,  examining  the  point  and  then  dipping 
it  into  the  ink. 

He  was  never  quite  sure  how  much  of  his  indifference 
was  assumed  and  how  much  of  it  was  real,  resulting 
from  his  extreme  impatience  to  finish  his  work.  But  to 
Jonah  Wood,  it  had  all  the  appearance  of  being  genuine. 

"I  am  surprised,  George,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
looking  very  grave.  "Are  you  in  your  right  mind? 
Are  you  feeling  quite  well?  I  am  afraid  this  good  news 
has  upset  you." 

George  rose  from  the  table  with  a  look  of  disgust, 
bent  down  and  looked  over  the  last  lines  he  had  written, 
and  then  stood  up. 

"If  nothing  else  will  satisfy  anybody,  I  suppose  I 
must  go  down,"  he  said  regretfully.  "Why  did  not  the 
old  brute  leave  the  money  to  you  instead  of  to  me?  You 
do  not  imagine  I  am  going  to  keep  it,  do  you?  Most  of 
it  is  yours  anyhow." 

2  c 


•\"'2  THK  THKKK  FA  n->. 

"I  understand,"  answered  .Jonah  Wood,  pushing  him 
gently  towards  tin.-  door,  "that  tin-  Mtftte  i>  large  enough 
to  cover  what  I  lost  r«niv  or  five  times  over,  if  not  more. 
It  is  very  inijMirtaiit ' 

"I>ovou  mean  to  say  it  is  as  much  as  that'.'"  (lenrge 
asked  in  MIMIC  surprise. 

••'I'hat  feeemfl  t«>  In-  tin-  impression,"  answered  his 
father  with  an  oilil  laugh,  which  (ieorge  had  not  heard 
tor  many  y»-;ir>.  Jonah  Wood  was  ushaim-d  «>t'  showing 
too  much  sat  i>tact  ion.  It  was  his  principle  m-vt-r  to 
make  any  exhibition  ot  his  tediums.  Imt  his  voice  couhl 
not  l»e  altogether  controlled,  and  there  was  an  unusual 
li^ht  in  his  eyes.  (ieor^e.  who  hy  this  time  had  col 
lected  his  8611868)  and  was  ahle  to  think  ot  .s..methin^ 
lioidrs  his  story,  saw  the  change  in  his  father's  tace  and 
understood  it. 

*'It  will  be  joll\  to  l»e  rich  a^ain,  won't  it.  tat  her?  "  he 
said,  familiarly  and  with  more  affection  than  lie  gener 
ally  showed  hy  manner  or  voice. 

"Very  pleasant,  very  pleasant  ind 1."  answered 

•  lonah  W 1  with  the  same  odd  lau-h.  "Mr.  Trimm 

tells  nn>  he  has  left  you  the  hoii^c  a->  it  stands  with 
\thing  in  it,  and  the  horses  —  everything.  I  must 
say,  <  '  In-  old  man  has  made  amends  I'm-  all  he  did. 

It  looks  \cr\  like  an  act  of  conscience." 

"  Ann-mi*'.'  Yes.  with  compound  interest  for  a  dozen 
yean  M  more,  if  all  this  is  true.  Well,  here  jn.es  the 
millionaire,"  he  exclaimed  as  they  left  the  I'oom  to 
gether. 

It  would  l»e  hard  to  imagine  a  position  more  com 
pletely  di8agV66sble  than  that  in  which  Sherrin^ton 
Trimm  was  placed  on  that  ]»artieiilar  afternoon.  It  WM 
l>axl  enough  to  have  to  meet  (Jeor^e  at  all  after  what  had 
happened.  Imt  it  was  most  unpleasant  to  appear  as  the 
itor  of  the  very  will  which  had  caused  BO  much 
.  to  fed  that  lie  w  as  1  »r  i  n«ji  n  ^  t  o  t  he  he  i  r  t  he  \  •«  •  ry 
whiidi  his  wife  liad  stolen  out  of  his  own  oilice. 
and  handing  over  to  him  the  fortune  which  his  wife  had 


THE   THREE   FATES.  403 

tried  so  hard  to  bring  into  his  own  daughter's  hands. 
But  Sherrington  Trimm's  reputation  for  honesty  and  his 
courageous  self-possession  had  carried  him  through  many 
difficult  moments  in  life,  and  he  would  never  have 
thought  of  deputing  any  one  else  to  fulfil  the  repugnant 
task  in  his  stead. 

Jonah  Wood  left  his  son  at  the  door  of  the  sitting- 
room  and  discreetly  disappeared.  George  went  in  and 
found  the  lawyer  standing  before  the  lire  with  a  roll  of 
papers  in  his  hands.  He  was  a  little  pale  and  careworn, 
but  his  appearance  was  as  neat  and  dapper  and  brisk  as 
ever. 

"George,"  he  said  frankly  as  he  took  his  hand,  "poor 
Tom  has  left  you  everything,  as  he  said  he  would.  Xow, 
I  can  quite  imagine  that  the  sight  of  me  is  not  exactly 
pleasant  to  you.  But  business  is  business  and  this  has 
got  to  be  put  through,  so  just  consider  that  I  am  the 
lawyer  and  forget  that  I  am  Sherry  Trimm." 

"I  shall  never  forget  that  you  are  Sherry  Trimm," 
George  answered.  "You  and  I  can  avoid  unpleasant 
subjects  and  be  as  good  friends  as  ever." 

"You  are  a  good  fellow,  George.  The  best  proof  of 
it  is  that  not  a  word  has  been  breathed  about  this  affair. 
We  have  simply  announced  that  the  engagement  is 
broken  off." 

"Then  Mamie  has  refused  to  change  her  mind,"  ob 
served  George,  wondering  how  he  could  ever  have  been 
engaged  to  marry  her,  and  how  he  could  have  forgotten 
that  at  his  last  meeting  with  Sherry  Trimm  he  had  still 
left  the  matter  open,  refusing  to  withdraw  his  promise. 
But  between  that  day  and  this  he  had  lived  through  many 
emotions  and  changing  scenes  in  the  playhouse  of  his 
brain,  and  his  own  immediate  past  seemed  immensely 
distant  from  his  present. 

"  Mamie  would  not  change  her  mind,  if  I  would  let 
her,"  Trimm  answered  briefly.  "  Let  us  get  to  business. 
Here  is  the  will.  I  opened  it  yesterday  after  the  funeral 
in  the  presence  of  the  family  and  the  witnesses  as  usual 
in  such  cases." 


404  THE    THHKK    I  ATI  - 

"Excuse  me,"  George  said.     "I  am  very  ^lad  that   I 

\vas  not  present,  hut  would  it  not  have  been  proper  to  1ft 
in.-  know?" 

"It  would  have  been,  of  course.  But  as  tin-re  was  no 
obligation  in  the  matter,  I  did  not.  I  supposed  that  you 
would  hear  of  tin-  death  alnmst  as  soon  as  it  was  known. 
You  and  \  our  father  were  known  to  be  Oil  bad  terms  with 
Tom  and  if  you  had  been  sent  I'm-  it  would  have  looked 
as  though  we  had  all  known  what  was  in  the  will.  Peo 
ple  would  have  supposed  in  that  case  that  you  must  have 
known  it  also,  and  you  would  have  been  blamed  i'or  not 
treating  the  old  gentleman  with  more  consideration  than 
YOU  did.  I  have  often  heard  you  say  sharp  things  about 
him  at  the  club.  This  is  a  surprise  to  you.  There  is  no 
reason  lor  letting  anybody  suppose  that  it  is  not.  A  lot  of 
small  good  reasons  made  one  bi^  i;ood  one  between  them." 

"I  see,"  said  George.  "Thank  you.  You  were  very 
wise." 

He  took  the  document  from  Trimm's  hands  and  read 
it  hastily.  The  touch  of  it  was  disagreeable  to  him  as 
he  remembered  where  he  had  last  seen  it. 

"I  had  supposed  that  he  would  make  another  after 
what  I  said  to  him,"  George  remarked.  "You  are  quite 
sure  he  did  not?" 

"  Positive.  He  never  allowed  it  to  be  out  ot  ln>  ^i^lit 
alter  he  found  it.  It  was  under  his  pillow  when  he  died. 
The  last  words  that  anybody  could  understand  were  to 
the  etTect  that  you  should  have  the  money,  whether  \..u 
wanted  it  or  not.  It  was  a  fixed  idea  with  him.  I  sup 
pose  you  know  why.  He  felt  that  .some  of  it  belonged 
to  your  father  by  ri^ht.  Tin-  transaction  by  which  he 
got  it  was  h-ural  —  but  peculiar.  There  are  peculiarities 
in  my  wife's  family." 

Sherry  Trimm  looked  away  and  p tilled  his  grizzled 
moustache  nervously. 

"There  will  be  a  u'ood  many  formalities,"  he  con 
tinued.  "Torn  owned  property  i"  several  different 
States.  I  have  brought  you  the  schedule.  You  can  have 


THE   THREE   FATES.  405 

possession  in  ^N"ew  York  immediately,  of  course.  It  will 
take  some  little  time  to  manage  the  rest,  proving  the  will 
half  a  dozen  times  over.  If  you  care  to  move  into  the 
house  to-morrow,  there  is  no  objection,  because  there  is 
nobody  to  object." 

"I  have  a  proposition  to  make,"  said  George.  "My 
father  is  a  far  better  man  of  business  than  I.  Could  you 
not  tell  me  in  round  numbers  about  what  I  have  to  ex 
pect,  and  then  go  over  these  papers  with  him?  " 

"In  round  numbers,"  repeated  Trimm  thoughtfully. 
"  The  fact  is,  he  managed  a  great  deal  of  his  property 
himself.  I  suppose  I  could  tell  you  within  a  million  or 
two." 

"A  million  or  two!"  exclaimed  George.  Sherry 
Trimm  smiled  at  the  intonation. 

"You  are  an  enormously  rich  man,"  he  said  quietly. 
"The  estate  is  worth  anywhere  from  twelve  to  fifteen 
millions  of  dollars." 

"All  mine?" 

"Look  at  the  will.  He  never  spent  a  third  of  his 
income,  so  far  as  I  could  find  out." 

George  said  nothing  more,  but  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  room  nervously.  He  detested  everything  con 
nected  with  money,  and  had  only  a  relative  idea  of  its 
value,  but  he  was  staggered  by  the  magnitude  of  the  for 
tune  thus  suddenly  thrown  into  his  hands.  He  under 
stood  now  the  expression  he  had  seen  on  his  father's 
face. 

"  I  had  no  conception  of  the  amount, "  he  said  at  last. 
"  I  thought  it  might  be  a  million." 

"A  million!"  laughed  Trimm  scornfully.  "A  man 
does  not  live,  as  he  lived,  on  forty  or  fifty  thousand  a 
year.  It  needs  more  than  that.  A  million  is  nothing 
nowadays.  Every  man  who  wears  a  good  coat  has  a 
million.  There  is  not  a  man  living  in  Fifth  Avenue 
who  has  less  than  a  million." 

" I  wonder  how  it  looks  on  paper,"  said  George.  "I 
will  try  and  go  through  the  schedule  with  you  myself." 


THK    THREE    FATi:>. 

An  hour  later  George  was  once  more  in  his  room.  For 
a  few  moments  he  stood  looking  through  the  window  at 

the  old   familiar  brick  wall  and  at  the  windows  of  tin- 
house  beyond,  but  his  reflections  were  very  vague  and 

shapel.-ss.  Hi-  could  not  realise  his  position  nor  his 
importance,  as  he  drummed  a  tattoo  (.11  the  glass,  witli 
his  nails.  He  was  trying  to  think  of  tin-  changes  that 
inevitable  in  the  immediate  future,  of  his  life  in 
another  house,  of  the  faces  of  his  old  acquaintances  and 
of  the  expression  some  of  tin-in  would  wear.  He  won 
dered  what  .lohnson  would  say.  The  name,  passing 
through  his  mind,  in-called  his  career,  his  work  and  the 
unfinished  chapter  that  lay  on  the  taUle  behind  him.  In 
an  instant  his  brain  returned  to  the  point  at  which  he 
had  been  interrupted.  Tom  Craik.  Sherry  Trimin.  tin- 
will  and  the  millions  vanished  into  darkness,  and  bcloiv 
ho  was  fairly  aware  of  it  In-  was  writing  again. 

The  days  were  short  and  he  was  obliged  to  light  the 
old  kerosene  lamp  with  the  green  shade  which  had  served 
him  through  so  many  hours  of  labour  and  study.  Tin- 
action  was  pundy  mechanical  and  did  not  break  his 
train  of  thought,  nor  did  it  suggest  that  in  a  tew  months 
he  would  think  it  strange  that  he  should  ever  have  been 
obliged  to  do  such  a  thing  tor  himself.  He  wrote  steadilv 
on  to  the  end.  and  signed  his  name  and  dated  the  manu 
script  before  he  rose  from  his  seat.  Then  h-  stretched 
himself,  yawned  and  looked  at  his  watch,  returned  in 
the  table  and  laid  the  sheets  neatly  together  in  then- 
order  with  the  r.-st  and  put  the  whole  into  a  drawer. 

"That  job  is  done."  he  said  aloud,  in  a  tone  of  pro 
found  satisfaction.  u  And  now.  I  can  think  of  something 

else." 

Thereupon,  without  as  much  as  thinking  of  resting 
himself  after  the  terrible  strain  he  had  sustained  during 
t»-n  days,  he  proceeded  to  dress  himself  \\ith  a  scrupu 
lous  rare  for  the  evening,  and  went  down  stairs  to  din 
ner.  He  found  his  father  in  his  accustomed  place 
U-tore  the  tire,  reading  as  usual,  and  holding  his  heavy 


THE   THREE   FATES.  407 

book  rigidly  before  his  eyes  in  a  way  that  would  have 
made  an  ordinary  man's  hand  ache. 

"I  have  finished  my  book!  "  cried  George  as  he  entered 
the  room. 

"  Ah,  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  you  have  been  writing  all  the  afternoon  since  Mr. 
Trimm  went  away?" 

"Until  half  an  hour  ago." 

"Well,  you  have  exceptionally  strong  nerves,"  said 
the  old  gentleman,  mechanically  raising  his  book  again. 
Then  as  though  he  were  willing  to  make  a  concession  to 
circumstances  for  once  in  his  life,  he  closed  it  with  a 
solemn  clapping  sound  and  laid  it  down. 

"George,  my  boy,"  he  said  impressively,  "you  are 
enormously  wealthy.  Do  you  realise  the  fact?" 

"I  am  also  enormously  hungry,"  said  George  with  a 
laugh.  "  Is  there  any  cause  or  reason  in  the  nature  of 
the  cook  or  of  anything  else  why  you  and  I  should  not  be 
fed?" 

"To  tell  the  truth,  I  had  a  little  surprise  for  you," 
answered  his  father.  "  I  thought  we  ought  to  do  some 
thing  to  commemorate  the  event,  so  I  went  out  and  got  a 
brace  of  canvas-backs  from  Delinonico's  and  a  bottle  of 
good  wine.  Kate  is  roasting  the  ducks  and  the  cham 
pagne  is  on  the  ice.  It  was  a  little  late  when  I  got  back 
—  sorry  to  keep  you  waiting,  my  boy." 

"Sorry!"  cried  George.  "The  idea  of  being  sorry 
for  anything  when  there  are  canvas -backs  and  cham 
pagne  in  the  house.  You  dear  old  man!  I  will  pay  you 
for  this,  though.  You  shall  live  on  the  fat  of  the  land 
for  the  rest  of  your  days !  " 

"Enough  is  as  good  as  a  feast,'"  observed  Jonah  Wood 
with  great  gravity. 

"  What  roaring  feasts  we  will  have  —  or  what  stupen 
dously  plentiful  enoughs,  if  you  like  it  better!  Father, 
you  are  better  already.  I  heard  you  laugh  to-day  as  you 
used  to  laugh  \vhcn  1  was  a  boy." 

"  A  little  prosperity  will  do  us  both  good, "  said  the  old 
gentleman,  who  was  rapidly  warming  into  geniality. 


408  THE    THREE    FATES. 

••  I  .say."  suggested  ( ;••..!••_"•.  "  I  have  finished  my  book, 
and  you  have  nothing  to  do.  Let  us  pack  up  our  traps 
and  go  to  1'aris  and  paint  the  town  a  vivid  scarlet." 

""What?"  asked  .lonah  Wood,  to  \vhoni  slang  had 
always  been  a  mystery. 

"Paint  tin-  town  red."  n-p«-at«-d  George.  "In  sliort. 
have  a  spree,  a  lark,  a  jollification,  you  and  I." 

"I  would  like  to  see  Paris  attain,  well  enough,  if  that 
is  what  you  mean.  P»y  tin-  way.  George.  \oiir  In-art  do.-s 
not  seem  to  troulih-  you  much,  just  at  present." 

"  Why  shoulil  it'.'  I  somet  hues  wish  it  would,  in  tin- 
right  direction." 

"You  have  your  choice  now,  George,  you  have  your 
choice,  now.  of  tin-  whole  female  population  of  the 
globe  - 

"<>f  all  the  girls  beside  tin-  wat«-r.  From  .laneiro  to 
Gibraltar,  as  the  old  song  >a\s."  laughed  George. 

"Precisely  so.     You  can  have  any  of  them  for  the 
ing.      Money   is  a   great    power,   my  boy.  a  great   power. 
You  must  be  careful  how  you  use  it." 

"I  shall  not  use  it.  I  shall  give  it  all  to  you  to  spend 
because  it  will  amuse  you.  and  I  will  go  on  writing 
hook>  b«-cau>e  that  is  the  only  thing  I  can  do  approxi 
mately  well.  I>oyou  know1.'  I  helieve  I  shall  be  ridic 
ulous  in  the  character  of  the  rich  man." 


CIIAPTKi;    XXIX. 

Three  years  later  George  Wood  was  .sitting  alone  on  a 
winter's  afternoon  in  the  library  where  Thomas  Craik 
had  once  given  him  his  views  on  life  in  general  ;md  on 
ambition  in  particular.  It  was  already  almost  dark,  for 
tin-  days  were  very  short,  and  two  lamps  shed  a  soft  light 
from  above  upon  the  broad  poli>ln-d  table. 

The  man's  lace  had  changed  during  the  years  that  had 


THE   THREE   FATES.  409 

passed  since  he  had  found  himself  free  from  his  engage 
ment  to  marry  his  cousin.  The  angular  head  had  grown 
more  massive,  the  shadows  about  the  eyes  and  temples 
had  deepened,  the  complexion  was  paler  and  less  youth 
ful,  the  expression  more  determined  than  ever,  and  yet 
more  kind  and  less  scornful.  In  those  years  he  had 
seen  much  and  had  accomplished  much,  and  he  had 
learned  to  know  at  last  what  it  meant  to  feel  with  the 
heart,  instead  of  with  the  sensibilities,  human  or  artistic. 
His  money  had  not  spoiled  him.  On  the  contrary,  the 
absence  of  all  preoccupations  in  the  matter  of  his  mate 
rial  welfare,  had  left  the  man  himself  free  to  think,  to 
act  and  to  feel  according  to  his  natural  instincts. 

At  the  present  moment  he  was  absorbed  in  thought. 
The  familiar  sheet  of  paper  lay  before  him,  and  he  held 
his  pen  in  his  hand,  but  the  point  had  long  been  dry,  and 
had  long  ceased  to  move  over  the  smooth  surface.  There 
was  a  number  at  the  top  of  the  page,  and  a  dozen  lines 
had  been  written,  continuing  a  conversation  that  had 
gone  before.  But  the  imaginary  person  had  broken  off 
in  the  middle  of  his  saying,  and  in  the  theatre  of  the 
writer's  fancy  the  stage  of  his  own  life  had  suddenly 
appeared,  and  his  own  self  was  among  the  players,  act 
ing  the  acts  and  speaking  the  speeches  of  long  ago,  while 
the  owner  of  the  old  self  watched  and  listened  to  the 
piece  with  fascinated  interest,  commenting  critically 
upon  what  passed  before  his  eyes,  and  upon  the  words 
that  rang  through  the  waking  dream.  The  habit  of 
expression  was  so  strong  that  his  own  thoughts  took 
shape  as  though  he  were  writing  them  down. 

"  They  have  played  the  parts  of  the  three  fates  in  my 
life,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Constance  was  my  Clotho, 
Mamie  was  my  Lachesis  —  Grace  is  my  Atropos.  I  was 
not  so  heartless  in  those  first  days,  as  I  have  sometimes 
fancied  that  I  was.  I  loved  my  Clotho,  after  a  young 
fashion.  She  took  me  out  of  darkness  and  chaos  and 
made  me  an  active,  real  being.  When  I  see  how 
wretchedly  unhappy  I  used  to  be,  and  when  I  think  how 


410  THE   THREK    I  A  IKS 

she  first  showed  mo  that  I  was  able  to  <l<i  something  in 
the  world,  it  docs  not  Mem  >t  range  tliat  I  should  have 
worshipped  her  as  a  sort  of  goddess.  It  things  liad  gone 
otherwise,  it  she  liad  taken  me  instead  of  refusing  me 
on  that  first  of  May.  it'  I  liad  married  her.  we  might 
liave  hern  very  happy  together,  for  a  time.  perhaps  tor 
alwa\>.  Put  we  w.-re  unlike  in  the  wrong  way:  mil- 
points  of  difference  did  not  eomplenient  eaeli  other. 
She  has  married  I  >r.  I  >rink\vater.  the  lleverend  I>oetor 
I>rinkwater.  a  good  man  twent\  years  older  than  herself. 

and   she    seems     perfectly    eolltelited.        The    tot     of    tit]|es> 

lies  ill  reversing  the  order  of  events.  If  to-day  her  good 
husband  were  to  die.  could  I  take  his  place  in  her  love 
or  estimation?  Certainly  not.  If  (irace  had  married 
the  clergyman,  eould  ('onstanee  have  been  to  me  what 
<  Jraee  is,  could  I  have  loved  her  as  I  love  this  woman 
who  will  never  love  me'.'  Assuredly  not;  the  tiling  is 
impossible.  I  loved  Constance  with  one  half  of  myself. 
and  as  far  as  I  went  I  was  in  earnest.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  higher,  more  intellectual  part  of  me,  for  I  did  not 
love  her  because  she  was  a  woman,  but  because  she  was 
unlike  all  other  women  —  in  other  words,  a  sort  of  angel. 
Angels  may  have  loved  women  in  the  days  of  the -ianN. 
but  no  man  can  love  an  angel  as  a  woman  ought  to  be 
loved.  As  for  me,  my  ears  are  wearied  by  too  much 
angelic  music,  the  harmonies  are  too  thin  and  delicate. 
the  notes  lack  character,  the  melodies  all  end  in  one 
close.  I  used  to  think  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
friendship.  I  have  ehanged  my  mind.  <  'on.Manee  i>  a 
very  g<x)d  friend  to  me.  and  1  to  her.  though  neither  of 
US  can  understand  the  other's  life  any  longer,  as  we 
understood  each  other  when  she  took  up  the  distaff  of 
my  life  and  tiiM  -et  the  sp indie  whirling. 

"  \Vas  I  heartless  with  poor  Mamie'/  I  suppose  I  was, 
because  1  made  h«-r  believe  fora  while  that  I  loved  her. 
Let  US  be  honest.  I  felt  something,  I  made  myself 
believe  that  I  felt  something  which  was  like  love.  It 
of  the  base]-  kind.  It  wa^  the  temptation  of  the 


THE   THREE   FATES.  411 

eye,  the  fascination  of  a  magnetic  vitality,  the  flattery 
of  my  vanity  in  seeing  myself  so  loved.  I  lived  for 
months  in  an  enchanted  palace  in  an  enchanted  garden, 
where  she  was  the  enchantress.  Everything  contributed 
to  awaken  in  me  the  joy  of  mere  life,  the  belief  that 
reality  was  better  than  romance,  and  that,  in  love,  it 
was  better  to  receive  than  to  give.  I  was  like  a  man  in 
a  badly  conceived  novel,  with  whom  everything  rests  on 
a  false  basis,  in  which  the  scenery  is  false,  the  passion 
is  false,  and  the  belief  in  the  future  is  most  false  of  all. 
And  how  commonplace  it  all  seems,  as  I  look  back  upon 
it.  I  do  not  remember  to  have  once  felt  a  pain  like  a 
knife  just  under  the  heart,  in  all  that  time,  though  my 
blood  ran  fast  enough  sometimes.  And  it  all  went  on 
so  smoothly  as  Lachesis  let  the  thread  spin  through  her 
pretty  fingers.  Who  would  have  believed  that  a  man 
could  be  at  once  so  fooled  and  so  loved?  I  was  sorry 
that  I  could  not  love  her,  even  after  we  knew  all  that 
her  mother  had  done.  I  remember  that  I  began  a  book 
on  that  very  day.  Heartless  of  me,  was  it  not?  If  she 
had  been  Grace  I  should  never  have  written  again.  But 
she  was  only  Lachesis;  the  thread  turned  under  her 
hand,  and  spun  on  in  spite  of  her,  and  in  spite  of  itself 
—  to  its  end. 

"Grace  is  the  end.  There  can  be  no  loving  after  this. 
My  father  tells  me  that  I  am  working  too  hard  and  that 
I  am  growing  prematurely  old.  It  is  not  the  work  that 
does  it.  It  is  something  that  wears  out  the  life  from 
the  core.  And  yet  I  would  not  be  without  it.  There  is 
that  thrust  again,  that  says  I  am  not  deceiving  myself. 
Grace  holds  the  thread  and  will  neither  cut  it,  nor  let 
it  run  on  through  her  fingers.  Heaven  knows,  I  am  not 
a  sentimental  man!  But  for  the  physical  pain  I  feel 
when  I  think  of  losing  her,  I  should  laugh  at  myself 
and  let  her  slip  down  to  the  middle  distance  of  other 
memories,  not  quite  out  of  sight,  nor  yet  quite  out  of 
mind,  but  wholly  out  of  my  heart.  I  have  tried  it  many 
a  time,  but  the  trouble  grows  instead  of  wearing  out.  I 


412  THI:  THI:I:I:   i  -A  IKS. 

have  tried  wandering  ;il)out  the  earth  in  most  known 
and  unknown  direct inns.  It  never  did  me  any  good.  I 
w«.nd«-r  whether  >he  know> '  After  ;ill  it  will  be  four 
yean  next  summer  si nee  poor  John  Bond  was  drowned, 
and  everybody  Bay*  she  has  forgotten  him.  Hut  she  is 
not  a  woman  who  f'org«'t>.  any  more  than  sin-  is  one  to 
wa>tc  her  life  in  a  perpetual  mourning.  To  sjM-ak  may 
l>e  to  eut  tin-  thread.  That  would  be  the  «-nd,  indt-rd  ! 
1  should  sec  her  after  that,  of  course,  hut  it  would  never 
l>e  the  same  ;i^ain.  She  would  know  my  secret  then  and 
all  would  he  over,  the  hours  together,  the  talks,  the 
touch  of  hands  that  means  so  much  to  me  and  so  little  to 
her.  And  yet.  to  know  —  to  know  at  last  the  end  of  it 
all  —  and  the  ^reat  'j.erhaps1  the  great  'if- —  if  she 
should!  Hut  there  is  no  '  perhaps. '  and  then-  can  lie  no 
'if.'  She  is  my  fate,  and  it  is  my  fate  that  tin-re  should 
be  no  end  to  this,  but  the  end  of  life  itself.  Better  so. 
Better  to  have  loved  ever  so  unhappily,  than  to  have 
been  married  to  any  of  the  Constances  or  the  Mamies  of 
this  world  !  Heigho  —  I  suppose  people  think  that  there 
is  nothing  I  cannot  have  for  my  money !  Nothing? 
There  is  all  that  could  make  life  worth  living,  and 
which  millions  cannot  buy  !  " 

The  curtain  fell  before  the  little  stage,  and  the  eyes 
of  the  lonely  man  closed  with  an  expression  of  intense 
pain,  as  he  let  his  forehead  rest  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 


by  J.  S.  dishing  &  Co.,  Boston.  I  >  A. 
PreMwork  by  Berwick  &  Smith.  Boston,  U.S.A. 


MACMILLAN'S  DOLLAR  SERIES 


OF 


WORKS   BY    POPULAR  AUTHORS. 

Crown  8vo.     Cloth  extra,     $1.00  each. 


BY   F.   MARION   CRAWFORD. 

With  the  solitary  exception  of  Mrs.  Oliphant,  we  have  no  living  novelist  more  distin 
guished  for  variety  of  theme  and  range  of  imaginative  outlook  than  Mr.  Marion  Craw 
ford.  —  Spectator- 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    THE    KING. 

(Ready  in  January.} 
MR.  ISAACS:  A  Tale  of  Modern  India. 
DR.  CLAUDIUS:  A  True  Story. 
ZOROASTER. 

A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 
SARACINESCA.     A  New  Novel. 
MARZIO'S  CRUCIFIX. 


WITH  THE  IMMORTALS. 

GREIFENSTEIN. 

SANT'  ILARIO. 

A  CIGARETTE-MAKER'S  ROMANCE. 

KHALED:  A  Tale  of  Arabia. 
|  THE  WITCH  OF  PRAGUE.     With  nu 
merous  Illustrations  by  W.  J.  HENNESSY. 
I  THE  THREE  FATES. 


BY  CHARLES   DICKENS. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  a  better  edition  of  Dickens  at  the  price  than  that  which 
is  now  appearing  in  Macmillan's  Series  of  Dollar  Novels.  —  Boston  Beacon. 


THE  PICKWICK  PAPERS.    50  Illustra 
tions.     (Ready.') 

OLIVER  TWIST.     27  Illustrations. 
(Ready.) 

NICHOLAS    NICKLEBY.      44    Illustra 
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MARTIN   CHUZZLEWIT.     41   Illustra 
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THE    OLD    CURIOSITY     SHOP.      97 
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BARNABY  RUDGE.  76  Illustrations. 
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AMERICAN  NOTES,  AND  PICTURES  FROM  ITALY.     4  Illustrations.     (Feb.) 

I 


Bv  CHARLES   KINGSLEY. 

ALTON  LOCKE.  HYPATIA. 

HEREWARD.  TWO  YEARS  AGO. 

HEROES.  WATER  BABIES.     Illustrated. 

WESTWARD  HO!  YF  AST. 


BY    HENRY  JAMES. 


He  has  the  power  of  seeing  with  the  artistic  perception  of  the  few,  and  of  writing 
about  what  he  has  seen,  so  that  the  many  can  understand  and  feel  with  him.  —  Saturday 


THE     LESSON    OF    THE     MASTER 

\ND  OTHER  STORIES. 
THE  REVERBERATOR. 


THE  ASPEN   PAPERS  AND  OTHER 

STORIES. 
A  LONDON  I  II  I 


BY   ANNIE    KEARY. 

In  our  opinion  there  have  not  been  many  novels  published  better  worth  reading.  The 
literary  workmanship  is  excellent,  and  all  the  windings  of  the  stories  are  worked  with 
patient  fulness  and  a  skill  not  often  found.  —  Spectator. 

JANETS  HOME.  A   DOUBTING  HEART. 

CLEMENCY  FRANKLYN.  ,  THE  HEROES  OF  ASGARD. 

A  YORK    AND   LANCASTER    ROSE. 


BY   D.  CHRISTIE   MURRAY. 

Few  modern  novelists  can  tell  a  story  of  English  country  life  better  than  Mr.  P 
Christie  Murray.  —  Spectator. 

AUNT  RACHEL.  I  HE  WEAKER  VESSEL. 

SCHWARZ. 

BY   MRS.   OLIPHANT. 

Ha*  the  charm  of  style,  the  literary  quality  and  flavour  that  never  fail*  to  please.  — 
Saturday  Rt-'ir-f. 

At  her  beit  she  is,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  the  best  of  living  English  novelists.  — 
Academy. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SOIL.     New  Edition. 
THE   CURATE    IN    CHARGE.     New 

Edition. 

YOUNG  M USCi RAVE.     New  Edition. 
HI      I  HAT    WILL    V>1     \\HKN    HE 

MAY.     New  and  Cheaper  Edition. 
SIR  TOM.     New  Edition. 
HESTER.    A  Story  of  Contemporary  Life.  I 


I  nr  WIZARD'S  SOW      NOT  Kdition. 
A     COUNTRY     GENTLEMAN     AND 

HI-   I  AM  II  \        New  Edition. 

NHGHBOUR9    OH     IMF.    (;RFFN 

New  Ft i itn UK 

AGNES  HOPETOUN'SSC  H<  M  »I,S  \\l> 
HOLIDAYS.     With  Uli.Mrations 


BY  J.   H.  SHORTHOUSE. 

Powerful,  striking,  and  fascinating  romances.  —  Anti-Jacobin. 


BLANCHE,  LADY  FALAISE. 
JOHN  INGLESANT. 
SIR  PERCIVAL. 


THE  COUNTESS  EVE. 
A  TEACHER  OF  THE  VIOLIN. 
THE    LITTLE    SCHOOLMASTER 
MARK. 


BY   MRS.   CRAIK. 

(The  Author  of  "John  Halifax,  Gentleman.") 

LITTLE  SUNSHINE'S  HOLIDAY.         I  ALICE  LEARMONT. 
ADVENTURES  OF  A  BROWNIE.          |  OUR  YEAR. 

BY   MRS.   HUMPHRY  WARD. 

Mrs.  Ward,  with  her  "  Robert  Elsmere  "  and  "  David  Grieve,"  has  established  with 
extraordinary  rapidity  an  enduring  reputation  as  one  who  has  expressed  what  is  deepest 
and  most  real  in  the  thought  of  the  time.  .  .  .  They  are  dramas  of  the  time  vitalized 
by  the  hopes,  fears,  doubts,  and  despairing  struggles  after  higher  ideals  which  are  sway 
ing  the  minds  of  men  and  women  of  this  generation.  —  New  York  Tribune. 

ROBERT  ELSMERE.  j  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE. 

MILLY   AND  OLLY. 

Bv  RUDYARD   KIPLING. 

Every  one  knows  that  it  is  not  easy  to  write  good  short  stories.  Mr.  Kipling  has 
changed  all  that.  Here  are  forty  of  them,  averaging  less  than  eight  pages  apiece  ;  there 
is  not  a  dull  one  in  the  lot.  Some  are  tragedy,  some  broad  comedy,  some  tolerably  sharp 
satire.  The  time  has  passed  to  ignore  or  undervalue  Mr.  Kipling.  He  has  won  his  spurs 
and  taken  his  prominent  place  in  the  arena.  This,  as  the  legitimate  edition,  should  be 
preferred  to  the  pirated  ones  by  all  such  as  care  for  honesty  in  letters.  —  Churchman, 
New  York. 

PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.      ,  LIFE'S  HANDICAP. 


BY   AMY   LEVY. 

REUBEN  SACHS. 

BY    M.   McLENNAN. 

MUCKLE  JOCK,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 
3 


Bv  THOMAS   HUGHES. 

•1DM    BROWN'S    SCHOOLDAYS.          |  RUGBY,  TI  \  \  I  —  I 
Illustrated. 


BY  ROLF  BOLUREWOOD. 

Mr.  Boldrewood  can  tell  what  he  knows  with  great  point  and  vigour,  and  there  i>  no 
better  reading  than  the  adventurous  parts  of  his  books.  —  Saturday  Review. 

ROBBERY  UNDER  ARMS.  M.VKRMORE. 

SYDNEY-SIDE  SAXON 


Bv  SIR   HENRY   CUNNINGHAM,   K.C.I.E. 

Interesting  as  specimens  of  romance,  the  style  of  writing  is  so  excellent  —  scholarly 
and  at  the  same  time  easy  and  natural  —  that  the  volumes  are  worth  reading  ou  that 
account  alone.  But  there  is  also  masterly  description  of  persons,  places,  and  thin;;*: 
skilful  analysis  of  character;  a  constant  play  of  wit  and  humour;  and  a  happy  gift  of 
instantaneous  portraiture.  —  St.  James's  Gazette. 

THE  CCERULEANS:    A  VACATION  IDYLL. 


BY  GEORGE  GISSING. 

We  earnestly  commend  the  book  for  its  hi^h  literary  merit,  its  deep  bright  interest, 
and  for  the  important  and  healthful  lessons  that  it  teaches.  —  Boston  Home  Journal. 

DENZIL  QUARR1KK. 


BY  W.  CLARK   RUSSELL. 

The  descriptions  are  wonderfully  realistic  .  .  .  and  the  breath  of  the  ocean  is  over 
and  through  every  page.  The  plot  is  very  novel  indeed,  and  is  developed  with  skill  and 
tact.  Altogether  one  of  the  cleverest  and  most  entertaining  of  Mr  ku.-. -ell's  many 
works.  —  Boston  Times. 

A  STRANGE  ELOPEMENT. 


BY  THE   HON.   EMILY    LAWLESS. 

It  is  a  charming  story,  full  of  natural  life,  fresh  in  style  and  thought,  pure  in  tone,  and 
refined  in  feeling. —  Nineteenth  Century. 

A  strong  and  original  story.  It  is  marked  by  originality,  ficslincks,  insight,  a  rare 
graphic  power,  and  as  rare  a  psychological  perception.  It  is  in  fact  a  better  story  than 
"  Hurrish."  and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal.  —  \eu>  York  Tribune. 

(JkAM A     THK  STORV  OF  AN  ISLAND. 
4 


BY  A   NEW  AUTHOR. 

We  should  not  be  surprised  if  this  should  prove  to  be  the  most  popular  book  of  the 
present  season;  it  cannot  fail  to  be  one  of  the  most  remarkable.  —  Literary  World. 

TIM  :   A  STORY  OF  SCHOOL  LIFE. 


BY  LANOE  FALCONER. 

(Author  of  "  Mademoiselle  Ixe.") 

It  is  written  with  cleverness  and  brightness,  and  there  is  so  much  human  nature  in  it 
that  the  attention  of  the  reader  is  held  to  the  end.  .  .  .  The  book  shows  far  greater 
powers  than  were  evident  in  "  Mademoiselle  Ixe,"  and  if  the  writer  who  is  hidden  behind 
the  nom  de  guerre  Lanoe  Falconer  goes  on,  she  is  likely  to  make  for  herself  no  incon 
siderable  name  in  fiction.  —  Boston  Courier, 

CECILIA  DE  NOEL. 


BY  THE    REV.   PROF.  ALFRED   J.   CHURCH. 

Rev.  Alfred  J.  Church,  M.A.,  has  long  been  doing  valiant  service  in  literature  in 
presenting  his  stories  of  the  early  centuries,  so  clear  is  his  style  and  so  remarkable  his 
gift  of  enfolding  historical  events  and  personages  with  the  fabric  of  a  romance,  enter 
taining  and  oftentimes  fascinating.  .  .  .  One  has  the  feeling  that  he  is  reading  an  accu- 
la'e  description  of  real  scenes,  that  the  characters  are  living  —  so  masterly  is  Professor 
Church's  ability  to  reclothe  history  and  make  it  as  interesting  as  a  romance.  —  Boston 
Time* . 

Jiist  ready. 

STORIES    FROM    THE 

GREEK     COMEDIANS. 

ARISTOPHANES.  PHILEMON. 

DIPHILUS.  MENANDER.  APOLLODORUS. 

With  Sixteen   Illustrations  after  thf  Antique. 


THE    STORY   OE    THE   ILIAD. 

With  Coloured  Illustrations. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  ODYSSEY. 
With  Coloured  Illustrations. 


THE  BURNING  OE  ROME. 

5 


BY 

MISS   CHARLOTTE   M.   YONGE. 

AN    OLD   WOMAN'S   OUTLOOK. 

(Just  rtady.) 


AJHI>    TAI.Ktl. 


THE  HEIR  OF  REDCLYFFE.  Illus 
trated. 

HEARTSEASE;  OK,  THK  HROTHKR'S 
\VIFK.  Illustrated. 

HOPES  AM)  KKARS.     Illustrated. 

DYNLVOR  TF.RRACE.     Illustrated. 

I  HI.   DAI>Y  CHAIN.     Illustrated. 

THE  TRIAL  :  MOKK  LINKS  OK  TMB 
DAISY  CHAIN.  Illustrated. 

1'II.I.ARS  OF  THE  HOUSE;  OK,  UN- 
DER  WODE  UNDER  RODK.  aVols.  Illus 
trated. 

THE  YOUNG  STEPMOTHER.  Illus 
trated. 

THE  CLEVER  WOMAN  OF  TIM 
FAMILY.  Illustrated. 

111!     THREE  BRIDES.     Illubtrated. 

MS     Y<  HUG    AH  ll'l  B,      Illustrated. 

THE  CACHED   LION.     Illustrated. 

1111  DOVE  IN  THE  EAGL1  S  NEST, 
Illustrated. 

THE  CHAPLET  OF  PEARLS.  Illus 
trated. 

LADY  HF..M1K.  \ND  I  HI  LAN 
VERS  PAPERS.  Illustrated. 


MAHNUM  BONUM.     Illustrated. 
LOVE  AND  LIFE.     Illustrated. 
UNKNOWN     10    HI.VIOKY.      A  Story 

of  the  Captivity  of  Mary  of  Scotland. 
STRAY    PEARLS,        Memoirs    of   Mar 

garet    de     Rilcuimont,      Vis>.>uute^     .>t 

I'.elaise. 

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THE   TWO    SIDES    OF   THE 

SHIELD. 

Ml  UK'S    FATHER. 
»  ENBS     AND    CHARACTERS;     on, 

ElGHTEKN    MuNTHS  AT   BEBCHCROFT. 

CHANTRY  HOUSE. 

A  MODERN  TELEMACHUS. 

BEECHCROFT  AT  ROCKSTOM 

\VI.M  \  \  k  I  N  D      \  Book  for  Mothers  and 


A      KMT  I  MI      l  HA.M.KI  ING;      OR. 
THREE    SEVENTH    YKARS,    Two    CEN- 

ITKIKS    AGO. 

I  HI    PWO  PENNILlSa  I'kiNCESSES. 

A  Story  of  the  Time  of  James  I.  of  Scot 

land. 

in  vi   BTI<  K. 


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ETRY.  Selected  by  C.  F.  ALEX 
ANDER. 

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Redclyffe." 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ROBIN 
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THE  REPUBLIC  OF  PLATO. 
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THE  SONG  BOOK.  Words  and 
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LAH. 

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|  TOM  BROWN'S  SCHOOL  DAYS. 
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LADY. 

SCOTTISH  SONG.  Compiled  by 
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DEUTSCHE  LYRIK.  Selected  by 
Dr.  BUCHHEIM. 

CHRYSOMELA.  A  Selection  from 
the  Lyrical  Poems  of  Robert 
Herrick.  Arranged  by  F.  T.  PAL- 
GRAVE. 

SELECTED  POEMS  OF  MAT 
THEW  ARNOLD. 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  CHRIS 
TIANS  AND  MOORS  IN 
SPAIN.  By  CHARLOTTE  M. 
YONGE. 

LAMB'S  TALES  FROM  SHAKE 
SPEARE.  Edited  by  the  Rev. 

A.    AlNGER. 


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I iy  F.  T.  PAI.GRAVK. 
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Ch-.sen  and  Edited  by  MATTHEW 

ARNOLD. 
POEMS   OF   SHELLEY.      Edited 

by  STOPFORD  A.  BR<M»KK. 
THE  ESSAYS  <  >l    .1'  M-.PH  AD- 

DISON.     Chosen  and  Edited   by 

JOHN  RICHARD  GUDBC, 
POETRY  OF  BYI«  'N.    Chosen  and 

Arranged  by  M.MTHKNV  AKVI.I'. 
SIR  THOMAS   BROWNE'S   RE- 

LK;io    MEDICI,   ETC.     Edited 

by  W.  A.  ( .KM  NUM. i.. 
THE   SPEECHES  AND  TABLE- 

IAI.K     OF     THE      PROPHET 

MOHAMMED.         Chosen      and 

Translated     by     STAM.KY     I^ANE 

POOLE. 

5ELECTK  >NS  i  i«  >M  i  HE  WRIT  - 
INC.S    <>1     WALTER    SAVAGE 

I  A\I'«  'K.         l-'ditrd     by     MI-M  V 

COIA  i  N  . 
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by  Mrs.  OI.IPHANT. 


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PER.  Edited  by  Rev.  W.  BENHAM. 

THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 
JOHN  KEATS.  B:ditedby  F.  T. 

PAIXSAYE. 

THE   TRIAL   AND    DEATH    OF 

SOCRATES.  Translated  into  Eng 

lish  by  E.  J.  CHT-K.-H,  M.A. 
CHILDREN'S     TREASURY     OF 

ENGLISH  SONG.    Edited  by  F. 

T.  PAI.C;RAVE. 
IN    MEMORIAM. 
TENNYSON'S  LYRICAL  I'M!  Mv 

Edited  by  F.  T.  PAI.GRAVE. 
PLAT  >.  PH.LhRrs.  LYSIS,  AND 

PROT.\(i«  «RAS.       Translated  ».y 

Rev.  J.  WKI..III. 
THEOCRITUS,       BION,        \\D 

MOSCHUS.      In   English   Prose. 

By  ANDREW  LAN-..  M.A. 
BALLADEN    TNI)    ROMANZEN. 

Edited  by  C.  A.  Buciiiii-iM.  Ph.D 
LYRIC  LOYE.    E.lite.lby  WIIIMM 


WIs- 


II\  MNS   ANh    OTHER    POIM- 

By  F.  T.  PAK.K\\  >. 
ill!     ART  OF  WORLDLY 

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